“And I saw a man ensorceled to his death.”
“Lies!” she cried, covering her ears with her palms. “You’ll not stop me returning.”
“I’ll leave that to your father. You’re going back to him if I have to leave you at his door bound hand and foot.”
“You don’t even know who he is,” she said, and he had the impression that she just stopped herself from sticking her tongue out at him.
“I’ll find out,” he said with an air of finality.
As he got to his feet she caught his wrist in both of her hands. Her eyes were large with pleading. “Please, Conan, don’t send me back to my father. He … he has said I am to be married. I know the man. I will be a wife, yes, honored and respected. And locked in his zenana with fifty other women.”
He shook his head sympathetically, but said only, “Better that than the cult, girl.”
He expected her to make a break for the door as he left, but she remained sitting on the bed. Retying the latch cord, he returned to the common room. Akeba and Sharak barely looked up when he took a stool at their table.
“ …And so I tell you,” Sharak said, tapping the table with a bony finger for emphasis, “that any attempt at direct confrontation will be disaster.”
“What are you two carrying on about?” Conan asked.
“How we are to attack the Cult of Doom,” Akeba replied shortly. His eyes bore the grim memory of the night before. “There must be a way to bring this Jhandar down.” His face twisted with distaste. “I am told they call him Great Lord, as if he were a king.”
“And the Khitan, of course,” Sharak added.
“But Jhandar—he is leader of the cult—must have given the man orders. His sort do not kill for pleasure, as a rule.”
Conan was more than a little bewildered. “Khitan? His sort? You seem to have learned a great deal in the short time I’ve been gone.”
“’Twas not such a short time,” Sharak leered.
“How was she?” At the look on Conan’s face he hastily cleared his throat. “Yes. The Khitan. From Akeba’s description of the man who … well, I’m sure he was from Khitai, and a member of what is called the Brotherhood of the Way. These men are assassins of great skill.” A frown added new creases to his face. “But I still cannot understand what part the Hyrkanians played.”
“I’ve never heard of any such Brotherhood,” Conan said. “In truth, I no more than half believe Khitai exists.”
“They were strange to me, also,” Akeba said, “but the old man insists they are real. Whatever he is, though, I will kill him.”
“Oh, they’re real, all right,” Sharak said. “By the time your years number twice what they do now, you’ll begin to learn that more exists beneath the sky than you conceive in your wildest flights of fancy or darkest nightmares. The two of you must be careful with this Khitan. They of the Brotherhood of the Way are well versed in the most subtle poisons, and can slay with no more than a touch.”
“That I believe,” Akeba said hoarsely, “for I saw it.” He tilted up his mug and did not lower it till it was dry.
“You, especially, must take care, Conan,” the astrologer went on. “I know well how hot your head can be, and that fever can kill you. This assassin—”
Conan shook his head. “This matter of revenge is Akeba’s, not mine.”
Sharak squawked a protest. “But, Conan! Khitan assassins, revenge, Hyrkanians, and the gods alone know what else! How can we turn our backs on such an adventure?”
“You speak of learning,” Conan told him.
“You’ve still to learn that adventure means an empty belly, a cold place to sleep, and men wanting to put a dagger in your ribs. I find enough of that simply trying to live, without seeking for it.”
“He is right,” Akeba said, laying a hand on the old man’s arm. “I lost a daughter to the Grave-digger’s Guild this morn. I have reason to seek vengeance, but he has none.”
“I still think it a poor reason to stand aside,” Sharak grumbled.
Conan shared a smile with Akeba over the old man’s head. In many ways Sharak qualified as a sage, but in some he was far younger than the Cimmerian.
“For now,” Conan said, “I think what we must do is drink.” Nothing would ever make Akeba forget, but at least the memory could be dulled until protecting scars had time to form. “Ferian!” he bellowed. “A pitcher of wine! No, a bucket!”
The innkeeper served them himself, a pitcher of deep red Solvanian in each hand and a mug for Conan under his arm. “I have no buckets,” he said drily.