Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2)

Suddenly Conan shouted, shifting his shoulders as if he intended an overhand blow. His opponent’s sword flashed up to block. Conan’s lunge brought them face to face, the Cimmerian’s blade projecting a foot through the other’s back. He stared into the dying man’s eyes, even in the darkness able to see the despair that came with the realization of death. Then only death was there. He tugged his blade free and wiped it on the dead man’s cloak.

“Are you hurt, Conan?” Hordo called, stumbling past the bodies in the narrow alley.

“Just wiping my—” A foul odor filled Conan’s nostrils. “Crom! What is that?”

“I slipped in something,” Hordo replied sourly. “That’s why I was so long getting back. Who’s the wench?”

“I’m not a wench,” Ariane said.

“Her name’s Ariane,” Conan said. He raised his eyebrows as he watched her slide a very efficient-looking little dagger inside her dress. “You didn’t draw that against me, girl.”

“I had it,” she replied. “Perhaps I didn’t think to need it with you. Are these friends of yours?”

“Footpads,” he snorted.

Hordo straightened from examining one of the corpses. “Mayhap you ought to take a look, Conan. They’re dressed well for Hellgate.”

“Some of Hellgate’s better citizens.” The Cimmerian’s nose wrinkled. “Hordo, as soon as we return Ariane to the Street of Regrets, you’re going to find a bathhouse. That is, if you intend to keep drinking with me.” Hordo muttered something under his breath.

“If it doesn’t have to be a bathhouse,” Ariane began, then stopped, chewing her full lower lip in indecision. Finally, she nodded. “It will be all right,” she said half to herself. “There’s an inn called the Sign of Thestis, just off the Street of Regrets. It has baths. You can come as my guests, for the night at least.”

“Thestis!” Hordo crowed. “Whoever heard of an inn called after the goddess of music and such?”

“I have,” Ariane said with some asperity. “If you are invited, the bed, food and wi

ne are free, though you’re expected to contribute if you can. You’ll understand when you see it. Well? Do you come, or do you stink until you can pay two silver pieces to a bathhouse?”

“Why?” Conan asked. “You sounded not so friendly a minute or two gone.”

“You interest me,” Ariane said simply.

Hordo snickered, and Conan suddenly wished the one-eyed man smelled just a little better, so he could get close enough to thump him. Hastily the Cimmerian gathered up the ancient sword in the cloak.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, “before we attract more vermin.”

Hurriedly they picked their way back out of Hellgate.

IV

Albanus angrily jerked the cord of his gold-embroidered dressing robe tight about his waist as he stalked into the carpeted antechamber of his sleeping apartments. Golden lamps cast a soft light on the walls, where bas-relief depicted scenes from the life of Bragoras, the ancient, half-legendary King of Nemedia from whom Albanus claimed pure and unsullied descent through both his father and mother.

The hawk-faced lord had left orders to be called from his bed whenever the two men now awaiting him arrived. Neither Vegentius nor Demetrio appeared to have slept at all. The soldier’s surcoat, worked with the Golden Leopard, was wrinkled and damp with sweat, while the eyes of the slender youth were haggard.

“What have you discovered?” Albanus demanded without preliminary.

Demetrio shrugged and sniffed at his ever-present pomander.

Vegentius stiffened in tired anger at the peremptory tone, and spoke harshly. “Nothing. The sword’s gone. Let it be. We don’t need it, and you’ve already gotten Melius killed, giving him the thing in the first place. Though, Mitra knows, the man is little enough loss.”

“How was I to know the accursed blade would seize his mind?” Albanus broke out. Hands knotted to keep them from shaking, he managed to regain control. “The sword,” he said in a somewhat calmer voice, “must be recovered. Another incident like today, another man going berserk with that blade in his hands, and Garian will know there’s sorcery loose in Nemedia again. Even with his dislike of majicks he might well bring his own sorcerer to court, for protection. Do you think I’ll so easily let my plans be thwarted?”

“Our plans,” Demetrio reminded gently from behind his pomander.

Albanus smiled slightly, a curving of the lips, nothing more. “Our plans,” he agreed. Then even that slight softness was gone. “The Guardsmen were put to the question, were they not, Vegentius? After all, they did kill Lord Melius.”

Vegentius gave a short nod. “All except their sergeant, who disappeared from the barracks when my Golden Leopards came to make the arrests. ’Twas guilt sent him running, mark my words. He knows something.”

“Most likely,” Demetrio murmured, “he knew what methods of questioning would be used.”