“This one’s dead, too,” Abuletes muttered. The fat tavern keeper knelt beside the first man Conan had confronted, his hands like plump spiders as they slipped the silver chain from about the dead man’s neck. “You broke his neck. Hanuman’s stones, Conan. That’s three free-spenders you’ve done me out of. I’ve half a mind to tell you to take your custom elsewhere.”
“Now you have it all,” Conan said sourly, “and you don’t have to give them any of your watered wine. But you can bring me a pitcher of your best. Kyroian. On them.”
He settled at a table against the wall, thinking rough thoughts about women. At least the red-haired wench could have shown a little gratitude. He had saved her from a mauling, if nothing worse. And Semiramis … . Abuletes plonked down a rough earthenware pitcher in front of him and stretched out a grubby hand. Conan looked significantly at the last of the dead Iranistanis being hauled away by the two scruffy men who earned coppers fetching and carrying around the tavern. He had seen all three of the dead men’s purses disappear beneath Abuletes’ filthy apron. After a moment the tavern keeper shuffled his feet, wiped his fat hands on his apron, and left. Conan settled down to serious drinking.
III
The tables that had emptied during the fight refilled quickly. No one had given more than a passing glance to the dead men as they were removed; the level of shouted laughter and raucous talk had never decreased. The half-naked courtesan briefly considered the b
readth of Conan’s shoulder with lust-filled eyes, then passed on from his grim face.
His troubles, Conan decided by the time he had emptied four wooden tankards of the sweet wine, would not be settled by the amounts he normally stole. Had he been a man of means the auburn-haired baggage would not have gone. Semiramis would not have thought it so important to ply her trade. But golden goblets lifted from the halls of fat merchants, pearl necklaces spirited from the very bedsides of sleek noblewomen, brought less than a tenth their value from the fences in the Desert. And the art of saving was not in him. Gambling and drinking took what remained from wenching. The only way to sufficient gain was one grand theft. But what? And from where?
There was the palace, of course. King Tiridates had treasures beyond counting. The king was a drunkard—he had been so since the days when the evil mage Yara was the true power in Zamora — but in justice he should willingly part with some portion of his wealth for the man who had brought Yara and the Elephant Tower down. If he knew that man’s deeds, and if he were of a mind to part with anything to a barbarian thief. But the debt was owed, to Conan’s mind, and collecting on it—albeit without Tiridates’ knowledge or consent —would not be theft at all.
Then there was Larsha, the ancient, accursed ruins not far from Shadizar. The origin of those toppled towers and time-eroded walls was shrouded in the depths of time, but everyone agreed there was treasure there. And a curse. A decade before, when Tiridates was still a vigorous king, he had sent a company of the King’s Own inside those walls in the full light of day. Not one had returned, and the screams of their dying had so panicked the king’s retinue and bodyguard that they had abandoned him. Tiridates had been forced to flee with them. If any had tried to penetrate that doom-filled city since, none had ever returned to speak of it.
Conan did not fear curses—had he not already proven himself a bane of mages?—as he did not fear to enter the very palace of the king. But which? To remove sufficient wealth from the palace would be as difficult as removing it from the accursed ruins. Which would give him the most for his labors?
He became aware of eyes on him and looked up. A dark, hook-nosed man wearing a purple head-cloth held by a golden fillet stood regarding him. A purple silk robe hung from the watcher’s bony shoulders. He leaned on a shoulder-high staff of plain, polished wood, and, though he bore no other weapon and was plainly not of the Desert, there was no fear of robbery — or anything else — in his black eyes.
“You are Conan the Cimmerian,” he said. It was not a question. “It is said you are the best thief in Shadizar.”
“And who are you,” Conan said warily, “to accuse an honest citizen of thievery? I am a bodyguard.”
The man took a seat across from him without asking. He held his staff with one hand; Conan saw that he regarded it as a weapon. “I am Ankar, a merchant dealing in very special merchandise. I have need of the best thief in Shadizar.”
With a confident smile Conan sipped his wine. He was on familiar ground, now. “And what special merchandise do you wish to acquire?”
“First know that the price I will pay is ten thousand pieces of gold.”
Conan set his mug down before he slopped wine over his wrist. With ten thousand … by the Lord of the Mound, he would be no longer a thief, but a man with a need to guard against thieves. “What is it you wish stolen?” he said eagerly.
A tiny smile touched Ankar’s thin lips. “So you are Conan the Thief. At least that is settled. Know you that Yildiz of Turan and Tiridates have concluded a treaty to stop the depredations against trade along their common border?”
“I may have heard, but there’s no loot in, treaties.”
“Think you so? Then know that gifts were exchanged between the kings in token of this pact, which is to last for five years. To Tiridates Yildiz sent five dancing girls bearing a golden casket, on the lid of which are set five stones of amethyst, five of sapphire and five of topaz. Within the casket are five pendants, each containing a stone the like of which no man has ever seen.”
Conan was tiring of the strange man’s supercilious air. Ankar took him for a rude, untutored barbarian, and perhaps he was, but he was not a fool. “You wish me to steal the pendants, not the casket,” he said, and was pleased to see Ankar’s eyes widen.
The self-named merchant took his staff with both hands. “Why do you say that, Cimmerian?” His voice was low and dark.
“The casket you describe could be duplicated for far less than what you offer. That leaves the pendants.” He measured the other’s age and added with a laugh, “Unless it’s the dancing girls you want.”
Ankar did not join in, continuing to watch Conan with hooded eyes. “You are not stupid—” He stopped abruptly.
Conan angrily shut off his laughter. Not stupid—for a barbarian. He would show this man a thing or three of barbarians. “Where are these pendants?” he growled. “If they’re in the treasure room, I will need time for planning and—”
“Tiridates basks in the reflected glory of a more powerful monarch. The casket shows that Yildiz has concluded a treaty with him. It is displayed in the antechamber before his throne room, so that all who approach him may see.”
“I will still need time,” Conan said. “Ten days for preparations.”
“Impossible! Make fewer preparations. Three days.”
“Fewer preparations and you’ll never see those pendants. And my head will decorate a pike above the West Gate. Eight days.”
Ankar touched the tip of his tongue to thin lips. For the first time he appeared uncertain. His eyes clouded as if he had lost himself in his thoughts. “Fi … four days. Not a moment more.”