“Then you can pay it,” the smuggler replied. “And if you die on me, I will sell your corpse for it.”
Conan laughed, but the laughter quickly trailed off in coughing, for he had no breath to spare. He felt as weak as a child. Even if the others got him to his feet, he knew it would be all he could do to stand. The fear and despair in his friend’s voice did not touch him, however. There was an answer he must have, and it lay there in the chests stacked against the wall. Or at least some clue to the answer must. The question was simple, yet finding the answer would keep him alive a while longer, for he would not allow himself to die without it.
He would not die without knowing why.
CHAPTER V
One by one, five more of Hordo’s crew staggered into Kafar’s cellar, most as drunk as the first three. Decidedly sickly looks came over their faces as they heard what had happened. It was not the death of the Vendhyan, nor even his attempt on Conan, but rather the means of that attempt. They were used to an honest blade and could even understand the knife in the back, but poison was something a man could not defend against. Cups that changed color when poisoned wine was poured into them were in the realm of wizards, and of princes who could afford to pay wizards.
Their green faces did not bother Conan, but the funereal glances they cast at him did. “I am not dead yet,” he muttered. The words came pantingly now.
“Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells is Ghurran?” Hordo growled.
As though to punctuate his words, the iron-strapped door banged open, and Prytanis led Ghurran into the cellar by a firm grip on a bony arm. The slit-nosed Nemedian appeared to have sobered to a degree, whether from his exercise in fetching Ghurran or from Hordo’s threats.
A leather strap crossed the stooped herbalist’s heaving chest, supporting a small wooden case at his side. Freeing his arm with a jerk, he scowled about the room, at the swaying drankards and the still-snoring Iranistani and the cloak-shrouded mound that was the Vendhyan. “For this I was dragged through the streets like a goat going to market?” he grated breathlessly. “To treat men fool enough to drink tainted wine?”
“Tainted wine on a blade,” Conan managed. He leaned forward and his head spun. “Once already today you helped me. Can you do it again, Ghurran?”
The old man brushed past Hordo and knelt to peer into the Cimmerian’s eyes. “There may be time,” he murmured, then in a firmer voice said, “You have the poisoned blade? Let me see it.”
It was Hasan who lifted the cloak enough to tug the push-dagger from the corpse’s chest. He wiped the leaf-shaped blade on the cloak before handing it to Ghurran.
The herbalist turned the small weapon over in scrawny fingers. A smooth ivory knob formed the hilt, carved to fit the palm while the blade projected between the fingers. “An assassin’s weapon in Vendhya,” he said. “Or so I have heard such described.”
Conan kept his eyes on the old man’s parchment-skinned face. “Well?” was all he said.
Instead of answering, Ghurran held the blade to his nostrils and sniffed lightly. Frowning, he wet a long-nailed finger at his mouth and touched it to the blade. With even greater caution than he had shown before, he brought the finger to his lips. Quickly he spat, scrubbing the finger on his robes.
“Do something!” Hordo demanded.
“Poisons are something I seldom deal with,” Ghurran said calmly. He opened the wooden box hanging at his side and began to take out small parchment packets and stone vials. “But perhaps I can do something.” A bronze mortar and pestle, no larger than a man’s hand, came from the box. “Get me a goblet of wine, and quickly.”
Hordo motioned to Prytanis, who hurried out. The herbalist set to work, dropping dried leaves and bits of powder into the mortar, grinding them together with the pestle. Prytanis returned with a rough clay goblet filled to the top with cheap wine. Ghurran took it and poured in the mixture from the mortar, stirring it vigorously with his finger.
“Here,” the old man said, holding the wine to Conan’s mouth. “Drink.”
Conan looked at the offering. A few pieces of leaf floated on the wine’s surface along with the sprinkling of varicolored powders. “This will rid me of the poison?”
Ghurran looked at him levelly. “In the time it would take you to reach the docks and return, you will either be able to walk from this room, or you will be dead.” The listening smugglers stirred.
“If he dies—” Hordo began threateningly, but Conan cut him off.
“If I die, it will not be Ghurran’s fault, will it, Ghurran?”
“Drink,” the old man said, “or it will be your own fault.”
Conan drank. With the first mouthful a grimace twisted his face, becoming worse with every swallow. As the goblet was taken from his mouth, he gasped. “Crom! It tastes as if a camel bathed in it!” A few of the listeners, those sober enough, laughed.
Ghurran grunted. “Do you want sweetness on the tongue, or the poison counteracted?” His eye fell on the opened chest. Face made even more hollow by a frown, he took some of the leaves, stirring them on his palm with a bony finger.
“Do you know the leaf?” Conan asked. He was not sure if his breathing was easier, or if he just imagined it so. “The man who did this told us they were spices.”
“Spices?” Ghurran said absently. “No, I do not think they are spices. But then,” he added, letting the leaves fall back into the chest, “I do not know all plants. I would like to look in the other chests. If there are herbs unknown to me in those also, perhaps I will take some of them in payment.”
“Look all you want,” Hordo said eagerly. “Prytanis, help him open the chests.” The Nemedian and the herbalist moved toward the stacked chests, and Hordo dropped his voice to a whisper ranged for Conan’s ears. “If he will take herbs rather than a hundred gold pieces, then well enough, I say.”
Conan drew a breath; they were coming easier. “Help me to my feet, Hordo,” he urged. “He said I would walk or die, and by Mitra’s bones, I intend to walk.”