“Baalsham is a man,” Tamur said nervously. He eyed the surrounding darkness and edged closer to the fire, dropping his voice. “But the spirits—if he has sent dead men after us … .”
A footstep sounded beyond the small pool of light from the fire, and Conan found himself on his feet, broadsword in hand. He was somewhat mollified to see that the others had drawn weapons as well. Even the old astrologer was shakily holding his staff out like a spear.
Zutan stepped into the light and stopped, staring at the bared steel.
Conan sheathed his blade with a grunt. “It is dangerous to leave your fires in the dark,” he said.
The Hyrkanian’s mustache twitched violently, but all he said was, “Samarra will see you now, Co-nan.”
“Samarra!” Tamur’s voice was a dry speak. “She is here?”
“Who is this Samarra?” Conan demanded. “Mayhap I do not wish to see her.”
“No, Conan,” Tamur said insistently. “You must. Samarra is a powerful shamaness. Very powerful.”
“A shamaness,” Sharak snorted. “Women should not be allowed to meddle in such matters.”
“Hold your tongue, old man,” Tamur snapped, “else you may find your manhood turned to dust, or your bones to water. She is powerful, I say.” He had turned his back to Zutan and was grimacing vigorously at Conan.
The young Cimmerian eyed him doubtfully, wondering if Tamur’s fear of this woman was enough to unhinge him. “Why does Samarra wish to see me?” he asked.
“Samarra does not give reasons,” Zutan replied. “She summons, and those she summons come. Even chiefs.”
“I will go to her,” Conan said.
Tamur’s groan was loud as Conan followed Zutan into the dark.
They walked to the yurts in silence. The nomad would not deign to converse with a trader, and Conan had his own thoughts to occupy him. Why did this Samarra wish to speak with him? Her sorcerous arts could have told her the true reason for his presence in Hyrkania, but only if she had purposely sought it out. In his experience of such things nothing was found unsought, and nothing was sought casually. Knowledge had its price when gained by thaumaturgical means, and though he had met sorcery and magic in many forms, never had he known it used to satisfy mere curiosity.
Had this Samarra been a man he could have first explained, then, an that did not work, slain the fellow. But it was not in him to kill a woman.
Lost in the workings of his mind, Conan started when the other halted before a huge yurt and motioned him to enter. The structure of felt stretched on wooden frames was at least twenty paces across, fit for a chief. But then, he told himself, a shamaness who could summon chiefs would certainly live as well as they. Without another glance at Zutan, he pushed open the flap and went in.
He found himself in a large chamber within the yurt, its “walls” brocaded hangings. The ground was covered by Kasmiri carpets in a riot of colors, dotted with cushions of silk. Gilded lamps hung on golden chains from the wooden frames of the roof, and a charcoal fire in a large bronze brazier provided wa
rmth against the chill outside.
So much he had time to note, then his eyes popped as eight girls burst from behind the hangings. From lithe to full-bodied they ranged, and their skins from a paleness that spoke of Aquilonia to Hyrkanian brownness to the yellow of well-aged ivory. Gilded bells tinkled at their ankles as they ran giggling to surround him; such was the whole of their costume.
His vision seemed filled by rounded breasts and buttocks as they urged him to a place on the cushions before the brazier. A scent of roses hung about them.
No sooner was he seated than two darted away to return with damp cloths to wipe his face and hands. Another set a chased silver tray of dates and dried apricots by his side, while a fourth poured wine from a crystal flagon into a goblet of beaten gold.
The music of flutes and zithers filled the chamber; the remaining girls had taken up the instruments and, seating themselves cross-legged, played. The four who had served him began to dance.
“Where is Samarra?” he asked. “Well? Answer me! Where is she?” The music soared, and the dancers with it, but none spoke.
He picked up the goblet, but put it down again untouched. Strong powders could be put in wine; he wagered that this shamaness knew of them. Best he neither eat nor drink till he was gone from Samarra’s dwelling place. And best he not eye the girls too closely, either. Mayhap the shamaness had a reason for wishing his attention occupied. He kept a close watch on the hangings, and a hand on his sword.
But despite his intentions he found his eyes drifting back to the dancing girls. Graceful as gazelles they leaped, legs striding wide on air, then rolled to the carpets, hips thrusting in abandon. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he wondered if perhaps the fire in the brazier made the yurt too hot. Did this Samarra remain away much longer, he might forget himself. Even though they would not talk, these girls might be willing to disport themselves with a young northerner.
A single sharp clap sounded above the music. Immediately the girls left off playing and dancing, and dashed behind the hangings. The grin that had begun on Conan’s face faded, and his hand returned to his sword as he sprang to his feet. The hangings parted, and the woman who had taunted him earlier appeared. The cloak was gone now, and long hair as black as night hung in soft waves about her shoulders. Her long kirtle clung to her curves.
“I prefer the dancing of young men,” she said, “but I did not think you would share my taste.”
“You?” Conan said incredulously. “You are Samarra?”
She gave a throaty laugh. “You are disappointed that I am not an aged crone, with a beak of a nose and warts? I prefer to remain as I am for as long as the arts of woman and magic combined can keep me so.” Her hands smoothed the bosom of her kirtle, pulling it tight over full round breasts. “Some say I am still beautiful.” Delicately wetting her lips, she moved closer. “Do you think so?”