Conan the Victorious Part 10

Strange devices of crystal and bone trembled as his fist pounded on the table. As it was meant to, the mirror showed him the source of his danger, yet he cursed its limits. What was the danger here? Across what sea did it come? There were seas to the south and far to the east was the Endless Ocean, said by some to end only at the brink of the world.

To the west lay the Vilayet and even farther the great Western Sea. At least Mount Yimsha had been recognizable.

He ground his teeth, knowing it was to keep them from chattering and hating the fact. Like an inky cloud, terror coiled its tendrils around his soul. He had thought himself long beyond such, but now he knew that the years with the mirror standing watch had softened him. He had plotted and acted without fear, thinking he had conquered fear because the emptiness of the mirror had told him his plans were unthreatened.

And now this s.h.i.+p! A tiny speck on the waters, by all the G.o.ds!

With tremendous effort he forced his features back to their normal outward calm. Forcefully he reminded himself that panic availed nothing. Less than nothing, for it hindered action. He had agents in many places and the means to communicate orders to them more swiftly than flights of eagles. His eyes marked the craft well and fingers that shook only slightly moved among the arcane implements on the table.

From whatever direction that vessel came, on whatever sh.o.r.e it landed, there would be men to recognize it. Long before it ever reached him, the danger would be purged as though with fire.

Chapter VII.

With his feet planted wide against the rise and fall of the deck and one hand on the stay supporting the mast, Conan peered through the night toward the blackness that was the eastern sh.o.r.e of the Vilayet.

The vessel ran as close insh.o.r.e as its shallow draft would allow. Not far to the west were islands of which the most pleasant thing said was that they were the lair of pirates. Other things were said as well, whispered in dark corners, but whatever lurked there, no one wanted to draw its attention.

The Cimmerian shared his vigil in the bow with only the two remaining goats and the wicker cage of pigeons. The chickens had gone the way of the other goat, into the smugglers' stomachs. Most of the crew were sprawled on the deck, heads pillowed on arms or coils of rope. Clouds covered the moon, and only through brief rents was there even a slight lessening of the darkness. The triangular sail was fullbellied with wind, and the rush of water along the hull competed with the occasional snore. But then, he thought, none of them had his reasons for eagerness to be ash.o.r.e, to find the men for whom the chests below were bound.

Keen as his eye was, however, he could make out no details of the land.

Worse, there was no sign of the signals Hordo had told him of.

"They must be here," he muttered to himself.

"But will they have the antidote?" Ghurran asked, handing Conan the goblet that had become a nightly ritual.

Conan avoided looking at the muddy liquid in the battered pewter cup.

It did not grow to look more appetizing with repeated viewing.

"They will have it." Holding his breath, he emptied the goblet, trying to pour the mixture down his throat rather than let it touch his tongue. "But if they do not?" the old man persisted. "There seems not even to be anyone there."

The Cimmerian's grimace from the taste of the potion turned to a smile.

"They are there." He pointed to three pinp.r.i.c.ks of light that had just sprung into being in the blackness of the sh.o.r.eline on the southern headland of the river mouth. "And they will have the antidote."

The herbalist trailed after him as he made his way down the deck. Hordo was kneeling beside a large, open chest of iron-bound oak that was lashed to the mast.

"I saw," the one-eyed man muttered when the Cimmerian appeared. "Now to see if they are the ones we seek." In short order he had a.s.sembled a peculiar-looking apparatus, three hooded bra.s.s lamps fastened to a long pole. There were hooks for attaching more of the lamps if need be, and pegs for crosspieces if other configurations were desired. This was a not-unusual method of signaling among the smugglers.

Once the lamps were alight, Hordo raised the pole high. Those few of the crew not asleep stood to watch. Ash.o.r.e, the center light of the three disappeared as though suddenly extinguished. Thrice the bearded smuggler lowered and raised the pole of lamps.

The remaining lights ash.o.r.e vanished and, with a grunt, Hordo lowered the pole and put out his own lamps. Almost with the breath that extinguished the last flame, he was roaring. "Up, you mangy curs! On your feet, you misbegotten camel sp.a.w.n! Erlik blast your tainted souls, move!" The s.h.i.+p became an anthill as men lurched out of sleep, some aided by a boot from the one-eyed man.

Conan strode to the tiller and found Shamil manning it. He motioned the lanky newcomer aside and took his place. The lower edge of the sail was just high enough for him to watch the coastline ahead.

"What has happened?" Ghurran demanded. "Were the signals wrong? Are we to land or not?"

"It is a matter of trust," Conan explained without looking away from his task. "The men ash.o.r.e see a s.h.i.+p, but is it the smuggler they expect? Signals are exchanged, but not with the place of landing. If a s.h.i.+pload of excis.e.m.e.n or pirates lands at the signal lights, they'd find no more than a single man, and that only if he is slow or stupid."

Another tiny point of light appeared on the coast, separated from the location of the others by almost a league. "And if we had not given the proper signals in return," the Cimmerian went on, "that would not now be showing us where to come ash.o.r.e."

Ghurran peered at the bustle among the smugglers. Some eased tulwars and daggers in their sheaths. Others loosed the strings of oilskin bags to check bowstrings and arrow fletchings. "And you trust them as much as they trust you," he said.

"Less," Conan grinned. "Even if those ash.o.r.e haven't tortured the signals out of the men we are truly here to meet, they could still want what we have without the bother of paying for it."

"I had no idea this could be so dangerous." The herbalist's voice was faint.

"Who lives without danger does not live at all," Conan quoted an old Cimmerian proverb. "Did you think to journey all the way to Vendhya by magic? I can think of no other way to travel so far without danger."

Ghurran did not reply, and Conan turned his whole attention to the matter at hand. The wind carried them swiftly toward the waiting light, but a landing on a night sh.o.r.e was not made under sail. To the creaking of halyards in the blocks, the long yard was lowered and swung fore and aft on the deck, a few hasty las.h.i.+ngs being made to keep the sail from billowing across the deck and hindering movement. Men moved to the rowing benches. The rasp of oarshafts on thole-pins, the slow swirl of blades dipping into the black water, and, incongruously, cooing from the cage of pigeons became the only sounds of the vessel.

Conan swung the tiller, and the smugglers' craft turned toward land and the guiding point of light. The vessel began to pitch with the swells rolling to sh.o.r.e, and the faint thrash of breakers drifted to his ear.

That there was a safe beach ahead he did not doubt. Even excis.e.m.e.n wanted a smuggler's cargo undamaged for the portion of its value that was theirs in reward. Of what came after the prow had touched sh.o.r.e, however, there was always doubt.

Sand grated under the keel and without the need of orders, every man backed water. To be too firmly aground could mean death. A splash came from the bow as Hordo tossed a stone anchor over the side. It would help hold the lightly beached craft against the tide, but the rope could be cut in an instant.

Even as the shudder of grounding ran through the craft, Conan joined the one-eyed man in the bow. The point of light that had brought them ash.o.r.e was gone. Varying shades of darkness suggested high dunes and perhaps stunted trees.

Abruptly a click as of stone striking metal came from the beach. Almost directly before them a fire flared, a large fire, some thirty-odd paces from the water. A lone man stood beside the fire, hands outspread to show they were empty. His features could not be seen, but the turban on his head was large, like those favored by Vendhyans.

"We'll discover no more by looking," Conan said and jumped over the side. He landed to his calves in water and more splashed over him as Hordo landed.

The bearded man caught his arm. "Let me do the talking, Cimmerian.

You've never been able to lie well, except to women. The truth may serve us here, but it must be used properly."

Conan nodded, and they moved up the beach together.

The waiting man was indeed a Vendhyan, with swarthy skin and a narrow nose. A large sapphire and a spray of pale plumes adorned his turban and a ring with a polished stone was on every finger. Rich brocades and silks made up his garments, though there were stout riding boots on his feet. His dark, deep-set eyes went past them to the boat. "Where is Patil?" he said in badly accented Hyrkanian. His tone was flat and unreadable.

"Patil left Sultanapur before us," Hordo replied, "and bv a different way. He did not tell me his route, as you may understand."

"He was to come with you."

Hordo shrugged. "The High Admiral of Turan was slain, you see, and it was said the deed was done by a Vendhyan. The streets of Sultanapur are likely still not safe for one of your country."

The truth, Conan thought. Even, word the truth, but handled, as Hordo would put it, properly.

A frown creased the Vendhyan's brow, though he nodded slowly. "Very well. You may call me Lord Sabah."

"You may call me King Yildiz if you need names," Hordo said.

The Vendhyan's face tightened. "Of course. You have the ... goods, Yildiz?"

"You have the gold? Patil spoke of a great deal of gold."

"The gold is here," Sabah said impatiently. "What of the chests, O King of Turan?"

Hordo raised his right hand above his head, and from the vessel came the grate of the hatch being pushed back. "Let your men come on foot for them," he cautioned, "and no more than four at a time. And I will see the gold before a chest is taken."

Six of the smugglers appeared on the edge of the firelight, bows in hand and arrows nocked. The Vendhyan looked at them levelly, then bowed to Hordo with a dry smile. "It shall be as you wish, of course."

Backing around the fire, he faded into the darkness up the beach.

"I mistrust him," Conan said as soon as he was gone.