“What is your name?” the Cimmerian asked.
“I am called Shamil. Who are you?”
“Shamil,” Conan said, “I will just assume you are too stupid to realize that a lamp could also be seen by others.” His voice grew harder. “I will not even think you might be a spy for the excisemen, trying to draw their attention. But if you do that again, I will make you eat the lamp.”
Hordo appeared beside him, testing his dagger on a horny thumb. “And after he does, I will slit your throat. You understand?” The lanky man nodded warily.
“Blind fools, Hordo,” Conan said and turned away before his friend could speak.
The Cimmerian’s earlier mirth had soured. Men such as this Shamil might well get them all killed before they ever saw the Zaporoska. And how many others like him were among the newcomers? Even if they were not done in by foolishness like lighting a lamp where stealth was required, how many of the new could be trusted did matters come to a fight on the other side of the Vilayet?
Muttering to himself, Ghurran stumbled his way down the dark deck and thrust a battered pewter cup into Conan’s hands. “Drink this. I cannot be sure what effect the pitching of sea travel will have. It is best to have a double dose and be safe.”
Conan took a deep breath and emptied the cup in one gulp. “It no longer tastes of camel,” he said with a grimace.
“The ingredients are slightly different,” the herbalist told him.
“Now it tastes as though a sheep was dipped in it.” Conan tossed the cup back to Ghurran as Hordo joined them.
“The chests are lashed below,” the smuggler said quietly, “and we are as ready as we are likely to be. Take the tiller, Cimmerian, while I get the men to the oars.”
“See if they can keep from braining one another with them,” Conan said, but Hordo had already disappeared in the dark, whispering muted commands.
The Cimmerian moved quickly aft, wincing at the clatter of oars as they were laid in the thole pins. As the craft was pushed out from the dock, he threw his weight against the thick wooden haft of the tiller, steering the boat toward open water. The sounds of Hordo quietly calling the stroke came over the creak of the oars. Phosphorescence swirled around the oar blades and in the wake.
Scores of ships in all sizes were anchored in the harbor, galleys and sailing craft from every port on the Vilayet. Conan directed a zig-zag course that kept well clear of all of them. The navy’s biremes were berthed in the northernmost part of the bay, but some of the merchantmen would have a man standing watch. None would raise an alarm, however, unless the smugglers’ craft came too close. The watches were to guard against thieves or pirates—some of whom were bold enough to enter the harbor of Sultanapur, or even Aghrapur—not to draw unnecessary attention to ships whose captains often carried goods not listed on the manifest.
The offshore wind carried not only the smells of the city, but picked up the harbor’s own stenches as well. The aromas of spice ships and the stink of slavers blended with the smell of the water. Slops and offal were tossed over the side whether a ship was at sea or in port, and the harbor of Sultanapur was a cesspool.
The vessel cleared the last of the anchored ships, but instead of relaxing, Conan stiffened and bit back a curse. “Hordo,” he called hoarsely. “Hordo, the mole!”
The long stone barrier of the mole protected the harbor against the sharp, sudden storms of the Vilayet that could otherwise send waves crashing in to smash vessels against the quays. Two wide ship channels, separated by more than a thousand paces, were the only openings in the great breakwater, and on either side of each channel was a tall granite tower. The towers were not yet visible in the night and would usually be manned only in time of war. What was visible, however, was the gleam of torchlight through arrow slits.
Pounding a fist into his palm, Hordo slowly backed the length of the deck, staring all the while toward the slivers of light. They became less distant by the moment. He spoke quietly when close enough for Conan and no other to hear. “It must be this Mitra-forsaken assassination, Cimmerian. But if they’ve manned the towers…”
“The chains?” Conan said, and the bearded man nodded grimly.
The chains were another precaution for time of war, like the manning of the towers. Of massive iron links capable of taking a ramming-stroke blow from the largest trireme without breaking, they could be stretched, almost on the surface of the water, to effectively bar the harbor entrances even to vessels as small as the one the smugglers rode.
Conan spoke slowly, letting his thoughts form on his tongue. “There is no reason for the towers to be manned unless the guard-chains have been raised. In the night they are little better than useless as watch posts. But there is no war, only the assassination.” He nodded to himself. “Hordo, the chains are not to keep ships out, but to keep them in.”
“Keep them in?”
“To try to keep the High Admiral’s assassin from escaping,” the Cimmerian said impatiently. “There are no city gates here to close and guard, only the chains.”
“And if you are right, how does it aid us?” Hordo grunted sourly. “Chains or gates, we are trapped like hares in a cage.”
“In war there would be a hundred men or more in each tower. But now…. They expect no attack, Hordo. And how many men are needed just to guard against someone trying to loose an end of the chain? As many as to guard a gate?”
The one-eyed man whistled tunelessly between his teeth. “A gamble, Cimmerian,” he said finally. “You propose a deadly gamble.”
“I have no choic
e. The dice will be tossed, one way or another, and my life is already wagered.”
“As you say. But do not ask me to like it, for I do not. We will have to try one of the towers on the part separated from land. Otherwise we might have a few score guardsmen to contend with before our business is done.”
“Not you,” Conan said. “If we both go, how long do you wager the ship will wait for us? The new men will not outstay the old, and the old are not overly eager for this voyage.”