gestured to Malak’s spare horse when the small man raised a questioning eyebrow.
Malak chuckled. “It was all I could steal. It’s for Akiro.”
“Is he close? I have no time to seek him very far.”
“Not far. The way you’re traveling, and to the south.”
“Then we must ride,” Conan said. “Time is lacking.”
Malak fell in beside him as he started forward again. The Cimmerian twisted in his high-pommeled saddle to make sure Bombatta and the girl were following. They were, but still at the distance they had maintained all morning. Conan was not sure if Bombatta simply wanted to avoid his dust, or if the other warrior simply did not want to ride with him. He suspected the latter, and did not care save for missing the opportunities to look at Jehnna.
As they rode, Malak continually glanced at him and muttered to himself. After a time he said, “Uh, Conan? What was all that about reasons why I shouldn’t be here, and Taramis telling you everything?”
“I wondered when you would ask,” Conan grinned, and detailed all that Taramis had said to him. At least, all that related to the seeking of the key and the treasure. Some things, said in his arms, the big youth would definitely not relate.
When he was done Malak shook his head dazedly. “And I thought all I had to worry about was this bringing Valeria back to life. Aiiee! Listen to me! All, I say, as if it was done by every street corner fakir in Shadizar. That’s what comes of being too close to too much sorcery, Cimmerian. You’re beginning taking it for granted. That is when it will kill you, or worse. Mark my words.” He mumbled something quickly, and Conan recognized a prayer to Bel, the Shemitish god of thieves.
“It is not so bad as it could be,” the Cimmerian said.
“Not so bad!” Malak all but squealed. “A girl with a map in her head. There is sorcery there, grant me? A magical key guarded by a wizard, and a sorcerous treasure no doubt under the protection of another mage, if not two or three. This is more than a prudent man should expose himself to. Listen. I know three sisters in Arenjun. Triplets, with bodies to make a man weep and a father who’s deaf. I’ll even let you have two of them. We put Shadizar from our minds, as if we have never been there, or even heard of it. Taramis would never find us in Arenjun, even if she thought to look. Nor would Amphrates. What do you think? We ride for Arenjun, right?”
“And Valeria?” Conan said quietly. “Do I put her from my mind also? Go to Arenjun, if you wish, Malak. I have been there, and have no reason to return.”
“You mean to go on, then?” Malak said. “No matter what I do?” Conan nodded grimly. The smaller man closed his eyes and murmured another prayer, this time to Kyala, the Iranistani goddess of luck. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will go with you, Cimmerian. But only because you’re giving me your half of Amphrates’ gems. This is business.”
“Of course it is,” Conan said lightly. “I would never accuse you of doing anything out of friendship.”
“Of course not,” Malak said, then frowned suspiciously at the Cimmerian as if he suspected he had not gotten the straight of the exchange. “At least there is one good thing about all of this.”
“What is that?” Conan asked.
“Why, as we are the best thieves in Shadizar,” Malak laughed, “which is to say the best in the world, this Amon-Rama will not know we have entered his domain until long after we are gone.”
vi
O nce the mountain had brought forth molten rock from the bowels of the earth. A millenium ago had come its final eruption, shaking the ground like the sea in storm for a thousand leagues in all directions, toppling cities and thrones and dynasties. It had blackened the skies with its ash, and in a final, deadly joke, the mountain of fire brought snows where the green of spring should have been and ice in place of the heat of summer for three years. The villagers
Malak chuckled. “It was all I could steal. It’s for Akiro.”
“Is he close? I have no time to seek him very far.”
“Not far. The way you’re traveling, and to the south.”
“Then we must ride,” Conan said. “Time is lacking.”
Malak fell in beside him as he started forward again. The Cimmerian twisted in his high-pommeled saddle to make sure Bombatta and the girl were following. They were, but still at the distance they had maintained all morning. Conan was not sure if Bombatta simply wanted to avoid his dust, or if the other warrior simply did not want to ride with him. He suspected the latter, and did not care save for missing the opportunities to look at Jehnna.
As they rode, Malak continually glanced at him and muttered to himself. After a time he said, “Uh, Conan? What was all that about reasons why I shouldn’t be here, and Taramis telling you everything?”
“I wondered when you would ask,” Conan grinned, and detailed all that Taramis had said to him. At least, all that related to the seeking of the key and the treasure. Some things, said in his arms, the big youth would definitely not relate.
When he was done Malak shook his head dazedly. “And I thought all I had to worry about was this bringing Valeria back to life. Aiiee! Listen to me! All, I say, as if it was done by every street corner fakir in Shadizar. That’s what comes of being too close to too much sorcery, Cimmerian. You’re beginning taking it for granted. That is when it will kill you, or worse. Mark my words.” He mumbled something quickly, and Conan recognized a prayer to Bel, the Shemitish god of thieves.
“It is not so bad as it could be,” the Cimmerian said.
“Not so bad!” Malak all but squealed. “A girl with a map in her head. There is sorcery there, grant me? A magical key guarded by a wizard, and a sorcerous treasure no doubt under the protection of another mage, if not two or three. This is more than a prudent man should expose himself to. Listen. I know three sisters in Arenjun. Triplets, with bodies to make a man weep and a father who’s deaf. I’ll even let you have two of them. We put Shadizar from our minds, as if we have never been there, or even heard of it. Taramis would never find us in Arenjun, even if she thought to look. Nor would Amphrates. What do you think? We ride for Arenjun, right?”
“And Valeria?” Conan said quietly. “Do I put her from my mind also? Go to Arenjun, if you wish, Malak. I have been there, and have no reason to return.”
“You mean to go on, then?” Malak said. “No matter what I do?” Conan nodded grimly. The smaller man closed his eyes and murmured another prayer, this time to Kyala, the Iranistani goddess of luck. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will go with you, Cimmerian. But only because you’re giving me your half of Amphrates’ gems. This is business.”
“Of course it is,” Conan said lightly. “I would never accuse you of doing anything out of friendship.”
“Of course not,” Malak said, then frowned suspiciously at the Cimmerian as if he suspected he had not gotten the straight of the exchange. “At least there is one good thing about all of this.”
“What is that?” Conan asked.
“Why, as we are the best thieves in Shadizar,” Malak laughed, “which is to say the best in the world, this Amon-Rama will not know we have entered his domain until long after we are gone.”
vi
O nce the mountain had brought forth molten rock from the bowels of the earth. A millenium ago had come its final eruption, shaking the ground like the sea in storm for a thousand leagues in all directions, toppling cities and thrones and dynasties. It had blackened the skies with its ash, and in a final, deadly joke, the mountain of fire brought snows where the green of spring should have been and ice in place of the heat of summer for three years. The villagers
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