Conan the Marauder (18 page)

A serving wench placed a platter of bread, fruit and cheese before him, and he ordered a pitcher of wine. It seemed that these foodstuffs were not rationed yet. Joints turned on spits over a charcoal fire, but that was to be expected. The rule in a siege was to slaughter and consume livestock first, the better to save on fodder and grain. Fresh fruit, greens and olives and other perishables went next. Last to be eaten were cheese, dried beans and peas, and the grains, which would last indefinitely if the rats and weevils could be kept from them. On no more evidence than this room around him, Conan could report that the city of Sogaria was confident and of no mind to surrender. The city was also certain that the siege would last no more than a few weeks. Inexperience could explain this surety, but he wondered about it.

A group of young men entered, swaggering in armour they plainly were not accustomed to. They looked about for an empty table and spied the one at which Conan sat. They took seats at the table without asking permission and called for the serving wench.

One of them glowered at Conan. "You look able-bodied," the youth said. "Why are you not in arms for the defence of the city?"

Conan put on the look of a simpleton. "I stranger. Not speak your tongue well."

"Shouldn't be allowed," said another young man. "Foreigners taking refuge within our walls and not taking part in the fighting."

"Leave my customer alone," said the serving wench. "'The difference between him and you is that he is paying for his fare, whereas I must feed you layabout knaves for free as long as you wear the city's colours."

"Only fair," said a young hero, "since we risk life and limb for you helpless civilians. Bring us your best food and wine."

"Food, yes," she said, "but wine you must pay for. The prince wants you healthy for battle, but he will not pay for your drunken revels. Pay up or drink water."

"Water!" said a young man with a drooping brown moustache. There was true horror in his voice. "I had heard that a siege was hell on earth, but I had not imagined anything so ghastly."

Conan gestured toward his pitcher. "I share," he sad.

Instantly the four young men were his close friends.

"I always said that it was a fine policy, protecting the strangers within our gates," said the one with the moustache.

They helped themselves to the pitcher and agreed that the foreigner was a fine and upstanding man. Conan knew that this joviality would last until the wine ran out. They conversed, paying little attention to him, a mere ignorant foreigner.

"Did you hear?" said one. "The authorities think that it was Manzur who got that messenger drunk and left the city with his horse and apparel."

"I always knew he would do something like that," said another. "After all his boasting and his poems of war and heroism, as soon as he has a chance at glory, he leaves his post and deserts."

"I for one do not think he has turned coward," said the one with the moustache. "A fool, yes. A coward, no. He probably hatched some scheme to go out and assassinate the Hyrkanian leader all by himself."

"Aye," said another. "Riding alone into enemy lines was not the act of a coward. And for all his boast and bluster and awful verses, Manzur is probably the finest swordsman in the city."

"Little matter," said the one who had first spoken. "Coward or hero, the poor fool is undoubtedly dead by now."

Conan remembered the prints of muffled hooves and the two men dead from two expert sword blows.

"That stands to reason," said one. "I think we should drink to the shade of our dead friend. Is there anything left in that pitcher?"

The one with the moustache peered into the vessel. "Empty as poor Manzur's head. Foreigner—" But when they looked, Conan had gone from their midst as silently as a wisp of mist.

Outside, he made his way to the palace. There was a chance that people would be up and talking and that he might learn something of interest. This early in the siege, the inhabitants would still be excited and restless. They had yet to learn the deadly tedium of siege warfare.

He crossed a public garden full of refugees from the country, huddled in makeshift tents and shacks, looking forlorn and miserable. Rustuf was right, he thought. If the siege were to be a long one, these people would suffer terribly. They would soon wish they had stayed la the countryside.

With the eye of an expert, Conan scanned the low wall surrounding the palace. Climbing would be no problem, as his first glance revealed. The stones were large and rounded, not cut flat and polished. There were vines and other growths as well. He saw no guards patrolling the top. That was to be expected. Most of the guards would be defending the city walls now, and would fall back to the palace only if the enemy gained the city.

The plan of the wall was irregular. Over the centuries, new wings of the palace had been built and sections of the wall had been demolished and expanded to accommodate them. The result was a great many angles and corners. He explored until he found an apt cranny, well away from the nearest crowds and gloomy enough to hide a climber from casual observation. With a final look around, he removed his sandals and hung them around his neck.

Swift as a lizard, Conan climbed the wall. Within a few seconds he had gained its crest and lay atop the parapet on his belly, eyes and ears sharp for sign of guards, strolling courtiers, or lovers seeking privacy. All was silent. Crouched low, he ran along the top of the wall, seeking a part of the rambling structure where the city's most important men might be planning their defence.

He passed wings of servants' quarters, stables, guards' barracks and sweet-smelling harem apartments. At last he found a broad, low structure from which poured bright illumination. After the fashion of the eastern lands, it had thick walls and small, high windows, against the blazing heat of the semi-desert surrounding the city. It was from these high windows that the light poured. In the centre of the building's tiled roof there was an opening to admit light and whatever rain might fall. Conan guessed that there would be a pool beneath-the skylight. This had the look of a council chamber, and by the light coming from the windows, it was in use.

One side of the structure abutted the wall that Conan was traversing, and he silently stepped onto its tiled roof, moving cautiously lest he disturb a loose tile. He considered going to an edge of the roof and hanging head-down over one of the windows, but the skylight seemed more promising. He edged his way up the gently sloping roof to the rim of the opening and cautiously peered within.

As he had anticipated, there was a rectangular pool in the centre of the room. He could just make out the knees of a line of figures seated along one side of the chamber. They were obviously facing a person or persons seated on the opposite side of the pool. All of the knees were richly dressed in silks except for a few that were armoured. The armour was gold-chased and elaborate. These were important men. Clearly, he had come to the right place. They were apparently wrapping up a lengthy argument concerning the number of horses within the city walls.

"We wrangle over nothing here, sire," said a voice that seemed to come from behind a pair of the armoured knees. "The question is not the beasts. We can always eat them should they prove too numerous. The problem ' is that we have taken in every two-legged creature within a score of leagues!" There were murmurs of agreement. Thus encouraged, the speaker went on. "I mean no disrespect, sire, but it is madness to allow so many useless mouths and bellies into a city facing

siege! Not only able-bodied men who can help with the defences, but women, children and foreigners, who have no stake in preserving our city."

"And on top of that, sire," said an elderly voice, "there is no rationing either. Should the siege not be lifted within a single moon, the people shall suffer grievously."

"Gentlemen," said a voice from the other side of the pool, "what would you have me do? I am the sworn protector of my people. Should I deny them the refuge of Sogaria's walls after they have obediently paid their taxes all their lives? Should I cast out the caravaneers who have made this city rich, perhaps thereby leading them to take their goods and beasts to some city other than Sogaria? I wish to keep the reputation of our splendid city stainless so that east and west may know that this is the safest route by which to transport goods. Without the caravans, we will wither and die like a vast grapevine once the single stem has been cut."

There were ritual murmurs that this was, indeed, wisdom.

"Besides," continued the man who, Conan guessed, was the prince, "you worry too much about this siege. Any day now I anticipate word from the mage, Khondemir, that he has reached his destination, and shortly thereafter the savages will be in full pursuit."

"He has been gone for many days, sire," said the armoured speaker, "and we have seen none of his messenger birds. A thousand picked cavalrymen of the Red Eagles away when we most need them! All off chasing into the Steppe of Famine after this supposed City of Mounds. I for one have no faith in this Turanian mountebank, sire."

"Enough," barked the prince. "I have chosen our course, and it is for the rest of you to follow. Now, my treasurer, let us speak of the loans by which the unfortunate landowners and peasants may restore their ravaged homes and farms."

Conan edged back from the skylight. The foregoing conversation had been enigmatic, but he was certain that it was important. He remembered the consternation of the Kagan and the other Ashkuz when he had mentioned the enemy excursion into the Steppe of Famine. Now he had another location: the City of Mounds, ' whatever that might be.

A few minutes later he was in the streets of Sogaria v once more. So that was why the Sogarians were taking few of the usual measures common to sieges. Their prince expected some sort of sorcerous aid from Khondemir. He remembered the name from the Turanian message the Kagan had given him to translate. What the connection might be was a mystery, but he had come I here to gather intelligence, not to interpret it. He made for the nearest city wall.

When Conan returned to the camp, the Kagan was away on one of his ceaseless inspections of the far-flung units of his horde. The sun was up and Conan visited I one of his unit's cook pots for breakfast, then inspected the men at their daily weapons practice. Satisfied that all was in order, he went to his tent to get some long-delayed sleep.

Rustuf woke him in early evening. "Get up, Conan. The Kagan wants your report."

Conan sat up and stretched. "The Kagan will not hear my report for hours. First I will have to sit through a banquet for his allied chiefs while they ignore me. Then I shall render my report after the rest have left. I do not know why he does not just summon me when he is ready to listen."

"Perhaps," opined Fawd, "he desires that your beauty be an ornament to his banquet." Conan cast a malodorous saddle blanket at the Turanian, who ducked adroitly.

As he had expected, Conan had to endure the lengthy banquet while the Kagan flattered his more-important allies and listened to the reports of his horde leaders and that of the Khitan engineer. The Khitan spoke at some length of how he would construct side walls for the ramp, filling the interior with earth and rubble. His assessment of the enemy's fire-power at the most auspicious site for the ramp indicated that the construction would cost approximately five hundred slaves per work day. The Kagan decided that this was reasonable attrition.

The horde commanders, whose concept of masonry was limited to a circle of stones around a campfire, were forced to sit through this dry, technical summary. They fought hard to hide their boredom, unaware that the Kagan wanted the siege of Sogaria to be a lesson for them, that they might serve him better in the future conquests they would undertake for him.

Conan stifled his yawns and endured. He ate mightily, drank moderately, and awaited his chance to give Ms report and be away. At length the banquet broke up and he stood as Bartatua dismissed his guests.

"Now, Conan," said the Kagan when the others were gone, "what did you learn in Sogaria?"

"They expect a short siege," the Cimmerian said.

"What makes them so—" But the Kagan was interrupted. A sound of drumming and chanting came from without the tent, accompanied by rhythmic rattling and the high, wild skirling of pipes.

"What now?" growled Bartatua.

The evil, snag-toothed countenance of Danaqan appeared in the tent's doorway. With a demented leer, the old man shook his rattle and cast coloured powders about the interior. When the powders touched the flames of torch or brazier, they exploded into brilliant light and evil smell.

"What is it, shaman?" Bartatua demanded.

"Kagan, with my fellow shamans I have detected evidence of a dire plot being drawn against you. We devote ourselves wholeheartedly to your welfare, and this night we have found that someone within the camp seeks your life. Come join us without, and by our arts we shall detect who this might be."

Bartatua glowered at the old man from beneath lowered brows. "Very well, shaman, but you had better have better proof than just a pointing finger. If you seek to discredit some loyal man in order to weaken me, I shall have your filthy hide flayed from your body."

The old man grinned and nodded. "Fear not, Kagan. When we find the guilty one, there will be no doubt of his iniquity. Our gods will not be mocked."

As the Kagan walked to the doorway, he turned to Conan. "Cimmerian, stay you here. I still want your report. This ancient mountebank should not keep me long."

Conan paced for a few minutes, then threw himself ' on a low divan of wool-stuffed leather. With the thumb of his left hand he pushed his sword guard, loosening the blade in its sheath. He did not know but that this event portended some assault upon him by the shamans, and he did not wish to be caught unaware. His swiftest horse was tethered outside, but he regretted that he had not taken the precaution of tying his provision-stuffed saddlebags behind his saddle before coming here. This evening's doings might end in an urgent need for sudden flight.