Conan The Defender Part 3

The old man cackled shrilly, touching the bandage across his eyes with a crooked stick he carried. "When the G.o.ds took these, they gave me other ways of seeing. As I do not see with eyes, I do not see what eyes see, but... other things."

"I've heard of such," Conan muttered. "And seen stranger still. What more can you tell me of myself?"

"Oh, much and much, young sir. You will know the love of many women, queens and peasant girls alike, and many between in station. You will live long, and gain a crown, and your death will be shrouded in legend."

"Bull dung!" Hordo grunted, thrusting his head past Conan's shoulder.

"I was wondering where you were," Conan said. "The old man knew I'm Cimmerian."

"An earful of your barbarous accent, and he made a lucky guess. Let's get a table and a pitcher of wine."

Conan shook his head. "I didn't speak, but he knew. Tell me, old man, What lies weeks ahead for me, instead of years?"

The blind man had been listening with a pained expression, tilting his head to catch their words. Now his toothless smile returned. "As for that," he said. He lifted his hand, thumb rubbing his fingertips, then abruptly flattened it, palm up. "I am a poor man, as you can see, young sir."

The big Cimmerian stuck two fingers into the pouch at his belt. It was light enough, filled more with copper than silver, and little enough of either, but he drew out a silver queenshead and dropped it on the old man's leathery palm.

Hordo sighed in exasperation. "I know a haruspex and three astrologers would charge half that together, and give you a better telling than you'll find in this place."

The old man's fingertips drifted lightly over the face of the coin. "A generous man," he murmured. The coin disappeared beneath his rags.

"Give me your hand. The right one."

"A palmist with no eyes," Hordo laughed, but Conan stuck out his hand.

As swiftly as they had moved over the coin the old man's fingers traced the lines of the Cimmerian's hand, marking the callouses and old scars.

He began to speak, and though his voice was still thin, the cackle was gone. There was strength, even power in it.

"Beware the woman of sapphires and gold. For her love of power she would seal your doom. Beware the woman of emeralds and ruby. For her love of you she would watch you die. Beware the man who seeks a throne, Beware the man whose soul is clay. Beware the grat.i.tude of kings." to Conan his voice grew louder, but no one else looked up from a winecup as he broke into a sing-song chant. "Save a throne, save a king, kill a king, or die. Whatever comes, whatever is, mark well your time to fly."

"That's dour enough to sour new wine," Hordo muttered.

"And makes little sense, besides," Conan added. "Can you make it no plainer?"

The old man dropped Conan's hand with a shrug. "Could I say my prophecies plainer," he said drily, "I'd live in a palace instead of a pigsty in h.e.l.lgate."

Stick tapping, he hobbled toward the street, deftly avoiding tables and drunken revelers alike.

"But mark my words, Conan of Cimmeria," he called over his shoulder from the doorway. "My prophecies always tell true." And he disappeared into the feverish maelstrom outside.

"Old fool," Hordo grumbled. "If you want good advice, go to a licensed astrologer. None of these hedge-row charlatans."

"I never spoke my name," Conan said quietly.

Hordo blinked, and scrubbed his mouth with the back of his calloused hand. "I need a drink, Cimmerian."

The scarlet-haired strumpet was rising from a table, leading a burly Ophirian footpad toward the stairs that led above, where rooms were rented by the turn of the gla.s.s. Conan plopped down on a vacated stool, motioning Hordo to the other. As he laid the cloak-wrapped sword on the table, the one-eyed man grabbed the arm of a doe-eyed serving girl, her pale b.r.e.a.s.t.s and b.u.t.tocks almost covered by two strips of green muslin.

"Wine," Hordo ordered. "The biggest pitcher you have. And two cups."

Deftly she slipped from his grasp and sped away.

"Have you yet spoken to your friends of me?" Conan asked.

Hordo sighed heavily, shaking his head. "I spoke, but the answer was no. The work is light here, Conan, and the gold flows free, but I am reduced to taking orders from a man named Eranius, a fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d with a squint and a smell like a dungheap. This bag of slime lectured me-imagine you me, standing still for a lecture?-'bout trusting strangers in these dangerous times. Dangerous times. Bah!"

"'Tis no great matter," Conan said. Yet he had hoped to work again with this bearded bear of a man. There were good memories between them.

The serving girl returned, setting two leathern jacks and a rough clay pitcher half again the size of a man's head on the table. She filled the jacks and waited with her hand out.

Hordo rummaged out the coppers to pay, at the same time giving her a sly pinch. "Off with you, girl," he laughed, "before we decide we want more than you're willing to sell."

Rubbing her plump b.u.t.tock she left, but with a steamy-eyed look at Conan that said she might not be averse to selling more were he buying.

"I told him you were no stranger," Hordo continued, "told him much of you, of our smuggling in Sultanapur. He'd not even listen. Told me you sounded a dangerous sort. Told me to stay away from you. Can you imagine him thinking I'd take an order like that?"

"I cannot," Conan agreed.

Suddenly the Cimmerian felt the ghost of a touch near his pouch. His big hand darted back, captured a slender wrist and hauled its owner before him.

Golden curls surrounded a face of child-like innocence set with guileless blue eyes, but the lush b.r.e.a.s.t.s straining a narrow strip of red sills named her profession, as did the girdle of copper coins low on her hips, from which hung panels of transparent red that barely covered the inner curves of her thighs before and the inner slopes of her rounded b.u.t.tocks behind. Her fist above his entrapping hand was clenched tightly.

"There's a woman of sapphires and gold," Hordo laughed. "What's your price, girl?"

"Next time," Conan said to the girl, "don't try a man sober enough to notice how clumsy your touch is."

The girl put on a seductive smile like a mask. "You mistake me. I wanted to touch you. I'd not be expensive, for one as handsome as you, and the herbalist says I'm completely cured."

"Herbalist!" Hordo spluttered in his wine. "Get your hand off her, Conan! There's nine and twenty kinds of pox in this city, and if she's had one, she likely has the other twenty-eight yet."

"And tells me of it right away," Conan mused.

He increased the pressure of his grip slightly. Sweat popped out on her forehead; her generous mouth opened in a small cry, and her fingers unclenched to drop two silver coins into Conan's free hand. In a flash he pulled her close, her arm held behind her back, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s crushed against his ma.s.sive chest, her frightened, sky-blue eyes staring into his.

"The truth, girl," he said. "Are you thief, wh.o.r.e, or both? The truth, and I'll let you go free. The first hint of a lie, and I'll take you upstairs to get my money's worth."

She wet her lips slowly. "You'll truly let me go?" she whispered. Conan nodded, and her shuddering breath flattened her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pleasantly against his chest. "I am no doxy," she said at last.

Hordo grunted. "A thief, then. I'll still wager she has the pox, though."

"It's a dangerous game you play, girl," Conan said.

She tossed her blonde head defiantly. "Who notices one more strumpet among many? I take only a few coins from each, and each thinks he spent them in his cups. And once I mention the herbalist none want the wares they think I offer." Abruptly she brought her lips to within a breath of his. "I'm not a wh.o.r.e," she murmured, "but I could enjoy a night spent in your arms."

"Not a wh.o.r.e," Conan laughed, "but a thief. I know thieves. I'd wake with purse, and cloak, and sword, and mayhap even my boots gone." Her eyes flashed, the guilelessness disappearing for an instant in anger, and she writhed helplessly within the iron band of his arm. "Your luck is gone this night, girl. I sense it." Abruptly he released her. For a moment she stood in disbelief; then his open palm cracking across her b.u.t.tocks lifted her onto her toes with a squeal that drew laughter from nearby tables. "On your way, girl," Conan said. "Your luck is gone."

"I go where I will," she replied angrily, and darted away, deeper into the tavern.

Dismissing her from his mind he turned back to his wine, drinking deep.

Over the rim of the leathern jack his eyes met those of the girl who had seemed out of place. She was looking at him with what was clearly approval, though not invitation, just as clearly. And she was writing on a sc.r.a.p of parchment. He would wager there were not a handful of women on that entire street who could read or write so much as their own names. Nor many men, for that matter.