“Four horses go to Vendhya,” Hordo said quickly. “At least. I will ride one, and we will need one for supplies. Anyone else going with us gets a horse, as well, for we have the longer way to go, and the harder. What are left over go to those returning to Sultanapur. I’ll give each man his share of the Vendhyan gold before we part. That should buy all the horses you need before you reach Khawarism—”
“Khawarism!” Prytanis exclaimed.
“—Perhaps sooner,” Hordo went on as though there had been no interruption. “There should be caravans in the passes of the Colchians.”
The Nemedian seemed ready for further argument, but Baltis pushed by him.
“That is fair enough, Hordo,” the earless man said. “I speak for the others as well. At least for those of us who have been with you before. It is only Prytanis here who wants all this crying and pulling of hair. As for Enam and myself, we have it in mind to go with you.”
“Aye,” the cadaverous Shemite agreed. His voice matched his face. “Prytanis can go his own way and take his wailing with him. Straight to Zandru’s Ninth Hell for all I care.”
The other group, the newcomers, had been stirring and murmuring among themselves all this time. Now Hasan gr
owled, “Enough!” at his fellows and moved away from them. “I want to go with you, too,” he said to Hordo. “I will likely never get another chance to see Vendhya.”
Shamil was almost on Hasan’s heels. “I, also, should like to see Vendhya. I joined you for gold and adventure, and there seems little of either in trudging back to Sultanapur. In Vendhya, though…well, we have all heard that in Vendhya even beggars wear gold. Perhaps,” he laughed, “some of it will stick to my fingers.”
None of the rest of the newlings seemed tempted by tales of Vendhyan wealth and when it came to them that but a single horse was left for those returning to Sultanapur, they lapsed into glum silence, slumping like half-empty sacks on the sand. The experienced smugglers were already seeing to their boots and sandals for the long walk around the Vilayet.
Prytanis seemed stunned by the turn of events. He glared about him at the men, at the ruins of the ship, at the horses, then sighed heavily. “Very well then. I will go as well, Hordo.”
Conan opened his mouth to refuse the Nemedian but Hordo rushed in.
“And welcome, Prytanis. You are a good man in tight places. The rest of you see to dividing the supplies. The sooner we travel, the sooner we all reach our destinations. You come with me, Cimmerian. We have plans to make.”
Conan let himself be drawn away from the others, but as soon as they were out of earshot, he spoke. “You were right in Sultanapur. I should have broken his head or slit his throat. All he wants is that last horse to himself instead of having to share it. And mayhap a chance to steal the rest of the gold.”
“No doubt you speak the truth,” Hordo replied. “At least about the horse. But credit me with the one eye I have. While you and Prytanis stared at each other, I was watching the newlings.”
“What do they have to do with the Nemedian? I doubt they trust him as much as I do.”
“Less, of a certainty. But they are none too sure of setting out afoot either. It would not take much spark—say you and Prytanis attempting to slay each other—for half of them to try for the horses. Then instead of going to Vendhya, we can all kill each other on this Mitra-forsaken bit of coast.”
Conan shook his head ruefully. “You see a great deal with that one eye, my old friend. Karela would be proud of you.”
The bearded man scrubbed at his nose and sniffed. “Perhaps she would. Come. They will be wanting their gold and likely thinking they should have twice as much.”
The gold—three pieces laid in each man’s calloused palm—caused no squabble at all, though there were a few sharp looks at the leather bag Hordo tied to his sword-belt. The way it tugged the broad belt down less was clear the proof that he had shared out most of the contents. The division of the supplies was the source of greater friction.
Conan was surprised at how many arguments could arise over dried fruit ruined by heat and immersion, or coils of rope for which no one could think of any use at present. Eventually, however, water bags, blankets and such were parceled out in proportion to numbers. The live goat and the remains of the cooked one would go with the men afoot. The cage of pigeons was lashed to the spare horse, along with a sack of grain for feed.
“Better to give the grain to the horses,” Conan grumbled, “and feed ourselves what we can catch.” He tossed a stirrup leather up over the silver-studded saddle on the big black and bent to check the girth strap. The two parties had truly become separate now. Those who would ride to Vendhya checked their horses while a short distance away, the men who were returning to Sultanapur bundled and lashed their share of the supplies into backpacks, murmuring doubtfully among themselves.
“Mitra’s Mercies, Cimmerian,” Hordo told him, “but there are times I think you do your best just to avoid a few comforts. I look forward to a spitted pigeon or two roasting over the fire tonight.”
Conan grunted. “If we put less attention to our bellies and more to riding hard, we could catch that caravan by nightfall. The Vendhyans spoke as if it were not far off.”
“That,” said Ghurran, leading his horse awkwardly by the reins with both hands, “would be a good way to travel to Vendhya. We could journey in safety and in comfort.” As though realizing that he intruded on a private conversation, he gave an apologetic smile and tugged his horse on.
“That old man,” Hordo muttered, “begins to fray my patience. The Vendhyans nearly kill us, my boat is burned, and through it all nothing seems to matter to him except reaching Vendhya.”
“His single-mindedness does not bother me,” Conan said, “though I should be glad to be able to do without his potions.”
The one-eyed man scratched at his beard. “You know it would be best to forget this caravan, do you not? If the men we fought last night have gone to join it, there will certainly be trouble there for us. We will be strangers, and they members of the caravan already.”
“I know,” Conan said quietly. “But you must know the antidote is not enough for me. A man has tried to kill me, and perhaps succeeded, over chests that look to be worth more than their contents. I will know the why of it, and the answer lies with those chests.”
“But be a little careful, Conan. It will profit you little to be spitted on a Vendhyan lance.”