bitumen, cast a cheerful glow. At the tables and benches sat the usual raffish crowd: a pair of drunken soldiers, loudly boasting of herculean feats of venery; a trio of desert Zuagirs in kaffiyyas, who revealed by nervous sidelong glances that they were strange to cities; a poor mad creature talking to himself in an endless mumbling monotone; a well-dressed man who, Conan guessed, was the head of a local syndicate of thieves; a dedicated astrologer working celestial calculations on a sheet of papyrus … .
Conan headed for the counter, behind which stood a brawny middle-aged woman. “Is Tigranes in?” he asked.
“He just stepped out. He’ll be back soon. What will you have?”
“Wine. The ordinary.”
The woman uncovered a tub, dipped up a scoop, and filled a leather drinking jack, which she pushed toward Conan. The Cimmerian put down a coin, took his change, and surveyed the room. Only one seat was vacant, at a small table for two. The other occupant was a young Zamorian, slight and dark, who stared unseeingly over his mug of ale. Conan walked to the table and sat down. When the young man frowned at him, he growled: “Mind?”
The youth shook an unwilling head. “Nay; you are welcome.”
Conan drank, wiped his mouth, and asked: “What’s news in Shadizar these days?”
“I know not. I have just come from the North.”
“Oh? Tell me, then, what news from the North?”
The young man grunted. “I was in the temple guard at Yezud, but the god-rotted priests have dismissed all the native guardsmen. They say Feridun will hire only foreigners, curse him.” With a glance at Conan, the Zamorian added, “Excuse me, I see you are a foreigner. Naught personal.”
“It matters not. Who is Feridun?”
“The High Priest of Zath.”
Conan searched his memory. “Is not Zath the spider-god of Yezud?”
“Aye.”
“But why should the priesthood prefer to be guarded by foreigners?”
The Zamorian shrugged. “They say they want men of larger stature, but I suspect some power maneuver in the ceaseless war of the priesthoods.”
“So they’re knifing one another in the back as usual?”
“Aye, verily! For the moment, the priests of Urud have the ear of the King, and the priests of Zath are fain to oust them and usurp their place.”
“In a confrontation between the Zathites and the King,” mused Conan, “perchance the Zathites think they would find foreign mercenaries more trustworthy than native Zamorians. What do you now?”
“Look for employment. I am Azanes the son of Vologas, and I have been thought a good man of my hands, even though I lack your bulk. Do you know of any openings?”
Conan shook his head. “I, too, have just arrived in Shadizar the Wicked; so I am in as fine a fix as you. They say the Turanians are recruiting mercenaries in Aghrapur—hold; there’s the man I came to see.”
Conan gulped his wine, rose, and returned to the counter, where a bald, potbellied fellow had taken the place of the brawny matron. Conan said: “Hail, Tigranes!”
The bald man, beaming, started to cry: “Co—” but Conan stopped him with an upraised hand. “My name is Nial,” he said, “and forget it not. How do you? You still had hair on your pate when last I saw you.”
“Alas, it’s gone the way of all things mortal, friend. How long have you been in Shadizar? Where dwell you? How did you find me?”
“One at a time,” grinned Conan. “First, let’s find a place where we can talk less publicly.”
“Right you are. Atossa!” When the woman took Tigranes’s place behind the counter, Tigranes grasped Conan by the elbow and steered him into a curtained cubicle behind the counter.
“This one is on the house,” he said, pouring two goblets of wine. “Now tell me about yourself. What have you been doing the last few years?”
“I’ve been a soldier in Turan, but I had to leave in haste.”
The taverner chuckled. “Same old Conan—I mean Nial. Where are you staying?”
“At
Conan headed for the counter, behind which stood a brawny middle-aged woman. “Is Tigranes in?” he asked.
“He just stepped out. He’ll be back soon. What will you have?”
“Wine. The ordinary.”
The woman uncovered a tub, dipped up a scoop, and filled a leather drinking jack, which she pushed toward Conan. The Cimmerian put down a coin, took his change, and surveyed the room. Only one seat was vacant, at a small table for two. The other occupant was a young Zamorian, slight and dark, who stared unseeingly over his mug of ale. Conan walked to the table and sat down. When the young man frowned at him, he growled: “Mind?”
The youth shook an unwilling head. “Nay; you are welcome.”
Conan drank, wiped his mouth, and asked: “What’s news in Shadizar these days?”
“I know not. I have just come from the North.”
“Oh? Tell me, then, what news from the North?”
The young man grunted. “I was in the temple guard at Yezud, but the god-rotted priests have dismissed all the native guardsmen. They say Feridun will hire only foreigners, curse him.” With a glance at Conan, the Zamorian added, “Excuse me, I see you are a foreigner. Naught personal.”
“It matters not. Who is Feridun?”
“The High Priest of Zath.”
Conan searched his memory. “Is not Zath the spider-god of Yezud?”
“Aye.”
“But why should the priesthood prefer to be guarded by foreigners?”
The Zamorian shrugged. “They say they want men of larger stature, but I suspect some power maneuver in the ceaseless war of the priesthoods.”
“So they’re knifing one another in the back as usual?”
“Aye, verily! For the moment, the priests of Urud have the ear of the King, and the priests of Zath are fain to oust them and usurp their place.”
“In a confrontation between the Zathites and the King,” mused Conan, “perchance the Zathites think they would find foreign mercenaries more trustworthy than native Zamorians. What do you now?”
“Look for employment. I am Azanes the son of Vologas, and I have been thought a good man of my hands, even though I lack your bulk. Do you know of any openings?”
Conan shook his head. “I, too, have just arrived in Shadizar the Wicked; so I am in as fine a fix as you. They say the Turanians are recruiting mercenaries in Aghrapur—hold; there’s the man I came to see.”
Conan gulped his wine, rose, and returned to the counter, where a bald, potbellied fellow had taken the place of the brawny matron. Conan said: “Hail, Tigranes!”
The bald man, beaming, started to cry: “Co—” but Conan stopped him with an upraised hand. “My name is Nial,” he said, “and forget it not. How do you? You still had hair on your pate when last I saw you.”
“Alas, it’s gone the way of all things mortal, friend. How long have you been in Shadizar? Where dwell you? How did you find me?”
“One at a time,” grinned Conan. “First, let’s find a place where we can talk less publicly.”
“Right you are. Atossa!” When the woman took Tigranes’s place behind the counter, Tigranes grasped Conan by the elbow and steered him into a curtained cubicle behind the counter.
“This one is on the house,” he said, pouring two goblets of wine. “Now tell me about yourself. What have you been doing the last few years?”
“I’ve been a soldier in Turan, but I had to leave in haste.”
The taverner chuckled. “Same old Conan—I mean Nial. Where are you staying?”
“At
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