“Hannuman’s Stones!” roared a bull-necked man, climbing onto the deck from below. Bald except for a thin black fringe, he wore a full beard fanning across his broad chest. His beady eyes lit on Conan. “Are you the cause of all the shouting up here?”
“Are you the captain?” Conan asked.
“I am. Muktar, by name. Now what in the name of Erlik’s Throne is this all about?”
“I came aboard to hire your ship,” Conan said levelly, “and one of your crew tried to put a dagger in my back. I threw him into the harbor.”
“You threw him into the … .” The captain’s bellow trailed off, and the went on in a quieter, if suspicious, tone. “You want to hire Foam Dancer? For what?”
“A trading voyage to Hyrkania.”
“A trader! You?” Muktar roared with laughter, slapping his stout thighs.
Conan ground his teeth, waiting for the man to finish. The night before he, Akeba and Tamur had settled on the trading story. Never a trusting people, the Hyrkanians had become less tolerant of strangers since Jhandar, but traders were still permitted. Conan thought wryly of Davinia’s gold. When the cost of trade goods, necessary for the disguise, was added to the hiring of this vessel, there would not be enough left for a good night of drinking.
At last Muktar’s mirth ran its course. His belly shook a last time, and cupidity lit his eyes. “Well, the fishing has been very good of late. I don’t think I could give it up for so long for less than, say, fifty gold pieces.”
“Twenty,” Conan countered.
“Out of the question. You’ve already cost me a crewman. He didn’t drown, did he? An he did, the authorities will make me haul him out of the harbor and pay for his burial. Forty gold pieces, and I consider it cheap.”
Conan sighed. He had little time to waste. If Tamur was right, they had to be gone from Aghrapur by nightfall. “I’ll split the difference with you,” he offered. “Thirty gold pieces, and that is my final offer. If you do not like it, I’ll find another vessel.”
“There isn’t another in port can put you ashore on a Hyrkanian beach,” the captain sneered.
“Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, there will be.” Conan shrugged unconcernedly.
“Very well,” Muktar muttered sourly. “Thirty gold pieces.”
“Done,” Conan said, heading for the side. “We sail as soon as the goods are aboard. The tides will not matter to this shallow draft.”
“I thought there was no hurry,” the bearded man protested.
“Nor is there,” Conan said smoothly. “Neither is there any need to waste time.” Inside, he wondered if they would get everything done. There simply was no time to waste.
“Speak on,” Jhandar commanded, and paced the bare marble floor of his antechamber while he listened.
“Yes, Great Lord,” the young man said, bowing. “A man was found in one of the harbor taverns, an Iranistani who claimed to have fought one who must be the man Conan. This Iranistani was a sailor on a smuggler, Foam Dancer, and it seems that this ship sailed only a few hours past bearing among its passengers a number of Hyrkanians, a huge blue-eyed barbarian, and a girl matching the description of the initiate who disappeared the night of the Hyrkanians’ attack.” He paused, awaiting praise for having ferreted out so much so quickly.
“The destination, fool,” Jhandar demanded. “Where was the ship bound?”
“Why, Hyrkania, or so it is said, Great Lord.”
Jhandar squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his temples with his fingers. “And you did not think this important enough to tell me without being asked?”
“But, Great Lord,” the disciple faltered, “since they have fled … that is … .”
“Whatever you discover, you will tell me,” the necromancer snapped. “It is not for you to decide what is important and what is not. Is there aught else you have omitted?”
“No, Great Lord. Nothing.”
“Then leave me!”
The shaven-headed young man backed from Jhandar’s presence, but the mage had already dismissed him from his mind. He who had once been known as Baalsham moved to a window. From there he could see Davinia reclining in the shade of a tree in the gardens below, a slave stirring a breeze for her with a fan of white ostrich plumes. He had never known a woman like her before. She was disturbing. And fascinating.
“I but listen at corners, Great Lord,” Che Fan said behind him, “yet I know that already there is talk because she is not treated as the rest.”
Jhandar suppressed a start and glanced over his shoulder at the two Khitans. Never in all the years they had followed him had he gotten used to the silence with which they moved. “If wagging tongues cannot be kept still,” he said, “I will see that there are no tongues to wag.”