“From the way that sword sits on your hip, I would name you, not merchant, but …” she put a finger to her lips as if in thought “ …warrior.”
“I am a trader,” he said emphatically. “If not kohl, perhaps perfume?”
“Nothing,” she said, amusement in her eyes. “For now, at least. Later I will have something from you.” Sh
e turned away, then stopped to look at him over her shoulder. “And that is perfume. Trader.” Her laughter, low and musical, hung in the air after she had disappeared into the crowd.
With a sudden sharp crack the small jar shattered in Conan’s grip.
“Erlik take all women,” he muttered, brushing shards of glazed pottery from his hand. There was nothing to be done about the smell of jasmine that hung about him in a cloud.
Grumbling, he resumed his pacing among the trade goods. Occasionally a man would glance at him in surprise, nose wrinkling, or a woman would eye him and smile. Each time he hurried furiously elsewhere, muttering ever more sulphurous oaths under his breath. A bath, he decided. When their camp was set he would bathe, and Mitra blast all the Hyrkanians if they thought it unmanly.
XIX
Throughout the day the trading continued briskly, goods from the west for goods looted from eastern caravans. As twilight empurpled the air Zutan returned. The bargaining tribespeople began to trail away at his appearance.
“I will show you to your sleeping place,” the greasy-mustached Hyrkanian said. “Come.” And he stalked off in the rolling walk of one more used to the back of a horse than to his own feet.
Conan set the others to repacking the trade goods, then scooped Yasbet into his arms. She was in an exhausted sleep so deep that she barely stirred as he carried her after Zutan, to a spot a full three hundred paces from the yurts.
“You sleep here,” the nomad said. “It would be dangerous to leave your fires after dark. The guards do not know you. You might be injured.” That thought apparently caused no pain in his heart. Traders might be necessary, his expression said, but they warranted neither the hospitality of shelter nor trust.
Conan ignored him—it was better than killing him, though less satisfying—and commanded Yasbet’s tent to be erected. As soon as the stakes were driven and the ropes drawn taut, he carried her inside. She gave but a sleepy murmur as he removed her garments and wrapped her in blankets.
Perhaps sleep would help her, he thought. His nose twitched at the scent of jasmine that was beginning to fill the tent. Sleep would not help him.
When he went outside, Zutan was gone. The sky grew blacker by the moment, and fires of dried dung cast small pools of light. The yurts could have been half a world away, for their lamps and fires were all inside, and the encampment of the tribes was lost in the dark. The horses had been tied to a picket line, near which the hampers of trade goods were shadowy mounds.
Straight to those mounds Conan went, rummaging through them until he found a lump of harsh soap. Thrusting it into his belt pouch, he hefted two water bags in each hand and stalked into the night. When he returned an odor of lye came from him, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering in the chill wind that whipped across the plain.
Settling crosslegged beside the fire where a kettle of thick stew bubbled, he accepted a horn spoon and a clay bowl filled to the brim.
“I am not certain that lye improves on jasmine,” Akeba said, sniffing the air pointedly.
“A fine scent, jasmine,” Sharak cackled. “You are a little large for a dancing girl, Cimmerian, but I do believe it became you more than your new choice.” Tamur choked on stew and laughter.
Conan raised his right hand, slowly curling it into a massive fist until his knuckles cracked. “I smell nothing.” He looked challengingly at each of the other three in turn. “Does anyone else?”
Chuckling, Akeba spread his hands and shook his head.
“All this washing is bad for you,” Tamur said, then added quickly as Conan made to rise, “But I smell naught. You are a violent man, Cimmerian, to act so over a jest among friends.”
“We will talk of other things,” Conan said flatly.
Silence reigned for a moment before Sharak spoke up. “Trade. We’ll talk of trade. Conan, it is no wonder merchants are men of wealth. What we bargained for today will bring at least three hundred pieces of gold in Aghrapur, yet a full two-thirds of the trade goods remain. Mayhap we should give up adventuring and become traders in truth. I have never been rich. I think I would find it pleasing.”
“We are here for more important matters than gold,” Conan growled. He set aside his bowl; his hunger had left him. “Know you that we have been followed since the coast?”
Tamur looked up sharply. “Baotan? I thought he had an eye for more than he received for the horses.”
“Not Baotan,” Conan replied.
“You looked back often,” Akeba said thoughtfully, “but said nothing. And I saw no one.”
Conan shook his head, choosing his words with care. “Nor did I see anyone. Still, someone was following. Or something. There was a feel … not human about it.”
Sharak laughed shakily. “An Jhandar, or Baalsham, or whatever he chooses to call himself, has come after us to these wastes, I will think on journeying to Khitai. Or further, if there is any place further.”