Roland Green: Conan The Valiant

"To worthy opponents," Conan said, lifting the cup. Then he pointed at the girl. "New, isn't she?"

"What of our Pyla, Conan?"

"Well, if she's free—"

"I am never free," came a cheerful voice from the stairs. "You know my price, and stop trying to beat it down, you son of a Cimmerian bog-troll!"

"Ah, the beautiful Pyla, as gracious as ever," Conan said. He raised his cup to the raven-haired woman swaying down the stairs. She wore crimson silk pantaloons and carved mother-of-pearl plates over her breasts. Only the ripe curves of those breasts hinted that she was any older than the girl.

"I hardly know why I am gracious, either," Pyla said, with a mock pout. "Everyone insults me, claiming that I am worth no more than a wharfside trull."

"You are worth more, of course," Moti said. "But not as much as you think. Indeed, you would be far richer if you charged much less. I doubt not that thinking of your price unmans half of those who would otherwise knock on your door—"

Moti broke off as five men entered from the street. Four wore leather tunics and trousers, with mail glinting at throats and wrists. Their heavy bronze-studded belts carried swords and short clubs.

The fifth man also wore tunic and trousers, but his were dark green silk, richly embroidered in gold. Gold likewise covered the hilt of his sword. Conan dismissed the party as some young nobleman and his bodyguards, wandering the city in search of pleasure. He doubted they would spoil an honest soldier's drinking if they did not overstay their welcome.

Moti and Pyla seemed to think otherwise. Pyla vanished like smoke, and when Conan turned around it seemed she had taken the dancing girl with her. Moti pulled out his own cure for unruly customers, a shipyard maul that even Conan needed two hands to swing easily. Then he poured wine into Conan's cup until it slopped over the edge.

Very surely the five were not what they seemed to Conan. Just as surely, nothing short of torture would loosen Moti's tongue. Conan moved until he could see the whole room while he spoke to Moti, then drank until the cup no longer overflowed.

"You said you hoped to be an officer the next time?," he prompted the innkeeper.

"If I remember what I learned this time, yes. Otherwise, small honor in being like him." Moti made a silent and subtle gesture at the silk-clad man.

"Best hope you serve under High Captain Khadjar in his next life," Conan said. "He could teach a shark or a hyena."

"I thought he was the one who had you sweating the recruits."

"So he is. He says it's a compliment. Perhaps it is." Conan drank again. "Is there food to be had tonight? Or has your cook been carried off by demons? I'll not take kindly to gnawing oats with your horses—"

As if in answer, Pyla and the Iranistani appeared with loaded trays for the newcomers. Conan saw that both wore loose, nearly opaque robes covering them from throat to ankles, and did not take their eyes off the five men. Neither did Moti, until they were served. Without moving more than his hand, Conan made sure that his sword rested lightly in its scabbard.

"There is no 'perhaps' about it," Moti said. "Conan, if Khadjar thinks you worth teaching, the gods have been generous. Too generous to an outlander, by my way of thinking."

"Yes, yes, O son of a Vendhyan dancing girl," Conan replied. Moti's voice was as brittle as an ill-tempered sword. A sense of danger crept up the Cimmerian's spine like a spider.

"My mother was the greatest dancer of her day," Moti said, "as Khadjar is the greatest soldier of ours." He looked at Conan. "You are—how old?"

"By the Turanian reckoning, twenty-two."

"Ha. The same age as Khadjar's bastard son. Or the age he would have been, had he not died two years ago.

Perhaps Khadjar seeks another son in you. He had no other kin and few friends, save for the boy. It was said, too, that the boy—"

The door opened and a woman entered. She could hardly have drawn more eyes had she risen from the floor in a cloud of crimson smoke, to the blare of trumpets.

She was tall and of a northern fairness, with wide gray eyes and scattered freckles under a tan. In age she was clearly a woman rather than a girl, and her figure could contest honors with Pyla's. Conan's eyes followed the line of her thigh up to the slender waist, then marched across the breasts that strained the brown woolen tunic and rested on the long fine neck.

When he had done this, he saw that the eyes of every other man in the room had marched with his.

The woman took no notice. She strode across the room with a grace that few dancers could have equalled. The men's eyes followed her, but they might have been the eyes of mice for all she seemed to care. Conan doubted that this woman would have broken stride crossing the room even if she had been as bare as a babe.

She reached the bar and said, in accented Turanian, "Honorable Motilal, I would have business with you." Bawdy laughter rippled around the room. She went on, as if blushing was beneath her. "I would buy a jug of wine, bread, cheese, and smoked meat. Any you have ready will do, even horse—"

"Do not insult Moti by thinking he serves horsemeat, good lady," Conan said. "If your purse is somewhat scant…"

The woman's smile did not reach her eyes. "And how am I to repay you?"

"By drinking some of that wine with me, no more."

This woman looked like a goddess in disguise, and could hardly be given to sporting with Cimmerian mercenary officers. She would give no pleasure save to his eyes, but that would be enough.

"If your purse is empty, girl, we can fill it before dawn," a bodyguard said. His comrades joined in the bawdy laughter. Few others did, least of all Conan. They saw the ice in the woman's eyes.

Moti struck the bar with the handle of his maul. The drummer pulled his drums into his lap and began pounding out a sensuous Zamoran beat. "Pyla! Zaria!" Moti shouted. "To work!"

The women whirled onto the floor. The shouting and clapping rose, until the drummer was sweating to make himself heard. First Pyla, then Zaria , threw off their robes. The man in green silk drew his sword and caught Zaria's on the point, without taking his eyes off the northern woman.

Conan considered the man anew. A fop he might be, but likely enough a dangerous one.

A kitchen girl appeared with a rush basket of food and a jug of fine Aquilonian wine. Moti handed them to the woman, counted the coins she drew from inside her belt, then slapped the girl on the rump.

"No more cooking tonight, Thebia. Dancers are what we need!"

In spite of the din, Conan heard in Moti's voice the tone of a man ordering a rearguard to stand and die. The tickling spider-legs of danger on Conan's spine became sharp hooves. Two years ago he would have drawn his sword.

Pyla cast aside her breast plates. They clattered to the floor amid cheers, as the northern woman turned for the door. Conan followed her with his eyes, and saw that the silk-clad man was doing the same. Pyla, Zaria ,

and Thebia might have been carrion birds pecking at ox bones for all he saw of them.

The woman could avoid the dancers only by passing close to her watcher and his guards. The man saw that in the same moment as Conan. His fingers did a dance of their own. Conan had taken two steps when one of the guards thrust a thick leg into the woman's path.

In the next moment Conan knew she was a warrior. She dropped both jug and basket to free her hands and save her balance. When she knew that her balance was lost, she twisted in midair and crashed down with both hands free. Rolling, she drew a dagger from one boot and uncoiled like a snake.

The lordling leaped from his chair, one hand on his sword hilt and the other held out in what Conan much doubted was friendship. As his guards also rose, the woman gripped the lordling's hand, then held on as she twisted again. The man's pearl-sewn shoes were no aid on the wine-slick floor. He sat down with a thump.