The conan compendium, p.505
The Conan Compendium, page 505
“Aye, that is so. I’d live no other way.”
They rode on for a while, saying nothing. The Cimmerian felt that, somehow, a bond had been forged between them. He was about to build upon this, perhaps to suggest greater intimacy with something less than his usual forthright fashion, when she straightened and focused her full attention straight ahead. He did likewise, cursing internally. What a rime for an interruption!
“Something comes,” she said quietly, her blade whispering from its sheath.
Conan’s sword was already in his hand, not even making a whisper as it slid forth. His nostrils flared. “The wind is from thai direction, but I do not smell that demon-scent.”
“Praise the gods for that,” she muttered. “Men are trouble enough without demons interfering. How many, think you?”
He strained his ears and heard only a shuffling sound, accompanied by a low, droning hum. “Unless I miss my guess, it is a lone man or woman, and not being very careful. It could be a decoy, something to hold our attention and lull us into complacency, allowing his confederates to attack us unawares.”
“I am no villager!” she said, nettled. “I know that well enough.”
He shrugged. So much for their newfound intimacy. Now he could see someone walking toward them. The stride, dejected and shuffling as it was, was that of a man. As the figure drew nearer, the humming noise resolved itself into a low, dirgelike song. The stranger definitely was not happy. He seemed not to notice them until he was no more than a score of paces before them. Then he looked up and gasped.
“Ahhh! Who are―mercy, my masters, it is wily I, Amram, the most unfortunate of men. I mean you no harm.”
Achilea laughed shortly. “Truly, ‘twas not you that concerned us, fellow. Are you alone?”
“Oh, assuredly! And you?”
Conan ignored the return query. “Then you must be a great fool, for only one such would walk alone upon these sands, and that makes me suspicious, for this desert is often called •the Fool-Slayer.’”
“But I did not begin thus,” said Amram with head hung low, “Mine, sir and madam, is a sad tale.”
“I doubt that not,” said Achilea, “for a hangdog rogue like you could tell no other.”
“Keep an eye upon him here,” Conan said. “I shall ride ahead and sniff out any ambush. If you hear sounds of fighting, slay him and ride back to the others.”
“Very well,” she said. “You know the desert better than I.” Conan rode out a half mile, zigzagging and cutting wide crescents, covering every possible ambush spot. He had known desert men to lie beneath blankets or straw mats and cover themselves with sand, where they would wait patiently for hours until their prey approached. When their victims were literally atop them, they would rise from the sand like demons exploding from the underworld, shrieking horrifically and laying about them with their blades until all their prey lay dead in a welter of blood and the booty was theirs. But there were signs by which eyes as keen as his could detect such lurkers, and the signs were missing.
Satisfied that no ambush lay in store for them, Conan rode back to where Achilea waited The stranger stood apprehensively by the warrior’s camel. He was a small man, slight of build. His lowered cowl revealed a narrow, beak-nosed face that creased into an ingratiating smile when me Amazon, seeing the Cimmerian returning, sheathed her sword.
Conan and Achilea resumed their interrupted trek. “Walk along between us, fellow,” Conan ordered. The man complied. “Now tell us your story.”
“Know, then, that I am a merchant of Baruba, in Keshan―”
“Your accents are those of Koth.” Conan said.
“Ah, just so. My father was a great merchant whose fine estate lay in the idyllic hills of Ramat, near―”
“Not only is your speech that of Koth,” Conan interrupted, “it is that of Khorshemish!”
“As I was about to say, my father’s great trading house lay in the fabulous temple district of that city―”
“Not only is your speech that of Khorshemish,” Conan went on relentlessly, “but it is that of the Swamp, a warren of seedy dives and houses of ill fame by the river.”
Amram gritted his teeth, but he went on gamely. “I can see that you are a widely traveled man.
Well, my father was not so great a merchant. He had a money-lending shop, but it was the very best such establishment in that humble district―” He broke off and squawked in alarm as Conan leaned from his saddle and encircled his neck with one powerful hand. His fingers did not squeeze, however, but only felt the strangely roughened skin just above the collarbone.
“If you are the son of a respectable pawnbroker,” the Cimmerian said, “why do you bear the scar of a Stygian slave-collar upon your neck?”
“We have not yet come a hundred paces,” Achilea said with wonder, “and this strange wight has already descended in rank from merchant prince to slave. How much lower can he go?”
Conan’s fingers tightened. “Even lower than a slave is a corpse. Would you care to try that role, Amram?”
“Mercy, Master!” Amram cried. “You do misapprehend! Long ago. I served in the army of Koth when we were at war with Stygia. I was captured and I abode in that land for some time in a state of reluctant servitude, but it was no more than the fate that often befalls soldiers. Surely you can find no dishonor in that.”
“So how came you to strolling about in this wilderness, you serpent-tongued rogue?” Achilea demanded.
“I was just coming to thai, great chieftainess! You should not be so impatient! The savor of a tale lies in its leisurely unfolding, not in its hurried and ill-considered pouring forth, like water from a great aqueduct.”
“Strange,” Conan mused, “the sort of people one meets in the desert in the middle of the night.”
“Years ago, I escaped from Stygian captivity and made my way to Keshan. There I prospered as a
trader and in time, became master of my own caravan. My camels were the best, and each year I trekked the route from Baruba to Punt, thence to Kutchemes and Zamboula, and then back again.”
“And what did you trade?” Conan inquired.
“All the usual goods: ivory, feathers, furs, pearls that come from the western shore through Kush and Darfar, slaves and so forth. On the return journey, I often carried spices, eastern silks, which are superior to the silk of Stygia, wrought gems, slaves of different race, and these I usually traded ‘in Stygia for goods of that land and fine Shemitish glassware before returning home to Baruba, where I have several wives and some dozen or so children.”
“The goods you mentioned are heavily taxed in Stygia, especially the silk,” Conan observed. “Did you evade the customs agents in this?”
Amram shrugged, “I see no good reason to cause the authorities more trouble than necessary. I am adept at avoiding them.”
“Then you are a smuggler!” Achilea said.
“What self-respecting caravaneer is not?” Amram asked with honest wonder in his voice.
Conan laughed “Aye, that’s true enough! All right, you’ve told us the vaunting part of your tale and I think we can believe some small parts of it Now give us the sad part.”
Amram sighed dramatically. “The times grew hard for the caravan trade. In the south, many camels died of a new affliction. To the north, old water holes dried up and in consequence, the desert tribes grew even more predatory. I could not assemble enough goods for a decent caravan, nor hire good, experienced men to drive such animals as I had left. And thus, alas, I came to commit folly.” He gave forth a truly lugubrious sigh.
“What was the nature of this folly?” Conan asked, knowing from experience that the time had come for him to prod the tale-spinner. It was a part of the storytelling ritual of the southern lands.
“I accepted a commission from a stranger, a man who knew not the desert, a madman upon a fool’s quest.”
Conan felt a tingling come upon his scalp, and he looked at Achilea, to find her looking back at him.
“What was the nature of this quest?”
“I was in Kutchernes, down to eight camels, one of them in suspect health. My men had deserted to find more promising employment. Then this one came to me. He said that his name was Firagi and that he wished to hire a caravan to take him into the deepest desert. All the other masters he approached refused to listen to him, but I was in no position to turn him away. I was desperate.”
“Describe him,” Conan said shortly. “A tall, lean fellow, very well dressed. His look was that of no nation I have ever seen, and his accent was very strange. I would speculate that he was some sort of Iranistani. He had something of the aspect of the scholar, but by this I do not mean a student of no experience in the real world. He was arrogant and truculent, like certain unpleasant priests of Stygia”
“I know that sort you mean,” Conan assured him. “Go on.” “He said that he would pay for the hire of men and the purchase of supplies. I agreed, but the only men I could find willing to hazard so uncertain a mission were the utter dregs of the caravan trade, which, as you may know, constitute a very low sort of man indeed.”
“I am aware of that,” said Conan. “What did he expect to find in the deep desert?” Achilea asked.
“At first, he was closemouthed about this. But as the days advanced and we found naught but barren, boundless sand my men balked. Then he told us of a marvelous city lost for ages in the very center of the desert, a city filled with treasure.” Amram shrugged. “I have seen many strange sights in my travels, so why not? More important, this aroused the cupidity of my men and tempted them to go on, although it was clearly dangerous to continue. Then one of them disappeared.”
“Deserted?” Conan asked.
Amram shook his head. “Nay. One morning we awoke and the man was gone. I took stock of our goods and found that nothing was missing. What sort of fool would leave a caravan in the midst of the desert without taking a camel, or some food or at least a skin of water? But all was accounted for. The
night had been windy, and there were no tracks to tell -hither he had gone. We decided that he had fallen mad and wandered off into the desert to die. It happens sometimes. “We trekked on. The next morning, another man was gone.
The circumstances were the same. Now my remaining men grew fearfully alarmed. A curse lay upon us, said one. A demon of the sands tempted the men into the desert, said another. These demons are known to take the form of a beautiful woman to lure men to their doom. Some sing an irresistible song, which is heard only by their chosen victim. He can think of nothing but finding the source of that song, and forgets all else in his pursuit of it.”
“And then?” Conan prodded,
“Be not so impatient, Conan,” Achilea chided. “The night is long and this fellow is amusing. Allow him to recite his epic in his own fashion.”
“You are lucky, Amram,” Conan said. “This woman is rarely so tolerant of men’s peculiarities.”
She laughed, and Amram grinned nervously, clearly relieved that his captors were in a good mood.
“The lady is both wise and beautiful. To continue: My men were distraught with fear and they accused our employer of being in league with the demons, of luring us into the great waste to be slain and devoured by the things. He said it was but a fluke, that two men had simply gone mad one after the other.
Again he spoke of this great city, which must be near. He pleaded that we should go on for just one more day. I was for turning back, but the others were men without great powers of discernment, and they agreed.”
“And the next morning, another man was gone,” Conan said, not making it a question.
“Nay. The next day, we awoke to find our water skins slashed. All that was left were stains upon the sands. When we were over our first, despairing horror, we turned in anger upon Firagi. This time, he stood there with a smirk upon his arrogant face. He told us that now we must find the city, for within it lay springs that never failed, and only he could take us there.”
“I would have slain him for his impertinence and made my way back, water or no water,” Achilea said.
“Ah, but that is only because you are new to the desert, lovely and fierce lady. We, experienced men all, knew that it would be our death to retrace our steps without adequate water. None of us had been so deep into the trackless waste before. Indeed, we had never met anyone, however experienced, who had dared enter that district. The fool’s city might be nothing but me vaporings of his deranged mind, but it was our only hope. Lacking any viable choice, we followed him yet farther into the sands.”
As they rode, Conan listened to the man’s tale, but he did not allow it to distract him from his primary mission, which was to guard the caravan from raiders, be they human or other. The faint breeze brought him little save the rustlings of their own harness and the breathing of the camels. Likewise, he smelled only the beasts he and Achilea rode, for this district did not support even scraggly desert brush or thorny cactus to add their scent to the parched air.
“After three days of this terrible journey,” Amram went on, “we were nigh insane with thirst. So we killed one of our camels to slake our thirst with its blood. With the wood of its saddle for fuel, we cooked some of its flesh and drew some strength therefrom. This heartened us, but after that, its fellows regarded us with suspicion.
“Soon even the camels were staggering and weaving, but Firagi strode on as if he did not notice small things like heat and thirst and the boundless miles. His was the intensity of the fanatic. It would have been pleasing to slay him, but then we would only die, so I swallowed the temptation to commit murder and forged on.
“One by one, camels and men dropped, and we who survived went a little farther on the strength of camel flesh and blood. But let me tell you, my friends, that while blood may keep life in your body, it does little to allay thirst, for it is as salt as the waters of the sea.
“In the end, only I and Firagi were left, and all the camels were dead. An hour came when I knew I could go no farther.
As I plodded along behind Firagi, I resolved to kill him before I expired, in order to avenge myself and my companions, for although they had been the veriest scum of the caravan trade, still, they had been my comrades of the desert trail. I chose a promising spot upon Firagi’s back and drew my dagger.” At this Amram drew a knife from the sheath tucked beneath his sash and flourished its blade, curved like the tusk of a boar, with dramatic panache.
“A deed of far greater profit had you done it earlier,” said Conan.
“Be still, Cimmerian!” Achilea snapped, clearly enthralled with the tale.
“But even before my blade touched his back, Firagi gave forth a loud cry,” Amram went on. “He stood at the very crest of a dune, weaving forward and back in his weakness, I could not see what had so affected him, so I resheathed my weapon in order to look, resolving to finish him off upon the next dune. I stepped around him to see what had caused his outcry, hoping for a .small spring. The tiniest, swampiest oasis would have gladdened my heart more than the richest city of treasure.” He broke off for another dramatic pause.
“Tell us!” Achilea commanded.
“It was not a spring. It was, indeed, a city.”
“Is it true, men?” Conan said, reluctant to trust the word of the shabby caravan master.
“Aye, it is true. At least it was a city. I cannot say as to the veracity of the treasure, as you shall soon learn. And it was no heap of ruins as are so many ancient cities of the drylands, its towers toppled and its statues neck-deep in the sands. Nay. this was a city utterly intact to the last tile, as much a city as Khorshemish, where I was born, or Luxur in Stygia, where I was a slave.
“See it as I saw it, my masters: Behind the massive walls, the towers rose a hundred paces against the blue sky; some of alabaster as white as salt, some of purple or green or red marble, crowned with bronze cupolas, and atop each, a spire terminating in a globe or a star or a crescent moon, gilded and flashing in the sunlight. So slender were those towers that they should have toppled in the great desert storms that come once or twice in each generation, powerful enough to destroy any structure of mud-brick or fired-brick, sparing only low buildings of stout stone. Yet the hard-blown sands of the desert had not even etched the fine polish of the delicate marble! Is this not a great wonder?”
“If it is true, it is indeed a great wonder,” Conan said “Go on!” Achilea said eagerly.
“Below the towers were the shapes of palaces, each topped with a brazen dome, some low and broad like the spreading fronds of a palm tree, some high and swelling like the turban of a sultan, and as rich with flashing gems. There were flat-topped terraces that may have been elevated gardens such as one often sees in the great cities of Stygia, but I saw not a trace of greenery upon them, nor anywhere around the city. “At once, my desire to murder Firagi abated, for he had led me truly, if at some cost. He cried out, his voice like that of a camel’s from exceeding dryness: ‘It is she! Truly, this is Janagar of the Opal Gates!’ And this was the first time he spoke the name of the city, a name that was unknown to me until that moment, and I consider myself well-versed in the lore of the desert.”
Conan and Achilea exchanged a look. “Your stock with us has just gone up a notch,” said the Cimmerian, with less doubt in his voice than previously. “Tell us more.”
Amram nodded and grinned. “Ah, you are connoisseurs of a fine story. Good, good! Never have I told one so strange that is also true. Well, then. We stumbled down the face of the dune toward the city, and now, over my great shock at seeing the apparition, I saw that there were other strange things about the place. It lay in the middle of a vast depression of sand as smooth as the inside of a bowl. The depression was not terribly deep, but deep enough to hide the city from view until one reached the crest of the last dune. And no birds soared overhead, such as one sees even in the most barren parts of the desert, for the long-winged birds will fly from far away to espy carcasses or small prey in the sands. But the sky above Janagar was as devoid of life as the city itself.
