Conan The Defender Part 8

"Will you guard your tongue?" Conan asked quietly.

She peered into her wine a time before answering. "From the stories you told, your sword goes where the gold is. Do you choose only by who can pay the most gold?"

"No," he told her. "I've ridden away from gold rather than follow unjust orders." Sighing, he added truthfully, "But I do like gold."

Clutching his cloak about her, she rose. "Mayhap... mayhap we'll speak of it later. They wait for me to finish posing."

"Ariane," he began, but she cut him off.

"Stephano thinks he has a claim on me," she said quickly. "He has not."

And she left almost as quickly as Stephano had.

Conan emptied his cup with a muttered curse, then turned to watch her drop his cloak and climb back to her pose on the table. After a moment her eyes s.h.i.+fted to him, then away, quickly. Again she met his gaze and tore hers away. Her rounded b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose and fell as her breathing became agitated. Spots of red appeared on her cheeks, growing, her face flus.h.i.+ng hotter and hotter. Abruptly she uttered a small cry and leaped down, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the cloak from the floor without looking again at Conan. She pulled the fur-trimmed garment about her as she ran, darting between the tables, feet flas.h.i.+ng up the stairs.

The Cimmerian smiled complacently as he poured more wine from the clay jug. Perhaps things were not as bad as they seemed.

Hordo dropped onto the stool across the table, a frown creasing his eye. "Have you listened to what's said in this place?" he asked quietly. "Was there a Guardsman about, there'd be heads on pikes for sedition before many more dawns."

Conan looked casually to see if anyone was listening. "Or for rebellion?"

"This lot?" the one-eyed man snorted derisively. "They might as well march to the block and ask to have their heads chopped. Not that the city's not ripe for it, mind. But these have as much chance as a babe sucking a sugar-t.i.t."

"But what if they had money? Gold to hire fighting men?"

Hordo raised his cup as Conan spoke; now he choked on the wine. "Where would this lot get gold? If one of them had a patron, you can wager your stones he'd not be living on the rim of h.e.l.lgate."

"Ariane's father is a lord," Conan said quietly. "And she told me some of the rest come of rich men, too."

The one-eyed man chose his words carefully. "Do you tell me they actually plan rebellion? Or think they do?"

"Stephano and Ariane, between them, as much as told me so."

"Then let us be gone from here. They may have some talents, but rebellion is not among them. If they met you last night and tell so much today, what have they told others? Remember, our heads can decorate pikes as easily as theirs."

Conan shook his head slowly, although Hordo was right, on the face of it. "I like it here," was all he said.

"You like a round-bottomed poet," Hordo said heatedly. "You'll die for a woman yet. Remember the blind soothsayer."

"I thought you said he was a fool," the Cimmerian laughed. "Drink, Hordo. Rest easy. We'll talk of our Free-Company."

"We've no gold yet that I can see," the other said sourly.

"I'll find the gold," Conan said with more confidence than he felt. He had no idea whence it might come. Still, it would be well to have his plans in order. A delay of days could mean the difference between being sought after and all who could afford such companies already having hired. "I'll find it. You say we can, ah, borrow weapons from the storehouses of the smuggling ring you serve. Are they serviceable? I've seen smuggled mail so eaten with rust it fell apart in a good rain, and blades that snapped at the first blow."

"Nay, Cimmerian. These are of good quality, and of any sort you want.

Why, there are as many kinds of sword bundled in those storehouses as I've ever heard named. Tulwars from Vendhya, shams.h.i.+rs from Iranistan, macheras in a dozen patterns from the Corinthian city-states. Fifty of this sort and a hundred of that. Enough to arm five thousand men."

"So many?" Conan murmured. "Why would they keep so much in their storehouses, and in such variety? There's no profit in storing swords."

"I bring what I'm told from the border to Belverus, and I'm paid for it in gold. I care not if they grow barley in the storehouses, so long as I get a fat purse each trip." Hordo tipped the jug over his cup; a few drops fell. "Wine!" he roared, a blast that brought dead silence to the room.

Everyone turned to stare in amazement at the two burly men. A slender girl in the same sort of plain neck-to-ankles cotton robe that Ariane wore approached hesitantly and placed another clay jug on the table.

Hordo fumbled in the purse at his belt and tossed her a silver piece.

"The rest is for you, little one," Hordo said.

The girl stared at the coin, then laughed delightedly and dropped a mockingly deep curtsey before leaving. Conversation slowly resumed among those at the tables. The musicians struck up their various tunes, and the poet orated to the wall.

"Pretty serving girls," Hordo muttered as he refilled his battered metal cup, "but they dress like temple virgins."

Conan hid a smile. The one-eyed man had drunk deeply the night before.

Well, he would discover soon enough that he did not have to pay for his wine. In the meantime, let him contribute for the both of them.

"Consider, Hordo. Such a motley collection of weapons is just the sort of thing these artists would put together."

"That again?" the other man grumbled. "In the first place, whoever runs the ring, I can't see him wanting Garian overthrown. Those fool tariffs might be starving the poor, but they make good profits for smuggling.

In the second place...." His face darkened, the scar below his patch standing out whitely. "In the second place, I've been through one rebellion with you. Or have you forgotten riding for the Venhyan border half a step in front of the headsman's sword?"

"I remember," Conan said. "I've said naught of joining their rebellion."

"Said naught, but thought much," Hordo growled. "You're a romantic fool, Cimmerian. Always were, likely always will be. Hannuman's Stones, man, you'll not mix me in another uprising. Keep your mind fixed on the gold for a Free-Company."

"I always keep my mind on gold," Conan replied. "Mayhap I think on it too much."

Hordo groaned, but Conan was saved having to say more by the appearance of the slender girl who had brought the wine jug. Tilting her head to one side, she favored the big Cimmerian with a look, half shyness, half invitation, that made the room suddenly too warm.

"What's your name, girl?" Hordo asked. "You're a pretty little bit. Get rid of that cotton s.h.i.+ft, deck yourself with a little silk, and you could work in any tavern in Belverus."

She tossed her head, laughing gaily, silken brown hair rippling about her shoulders. "Thank you, kind sir, and for your generous contribution." Hordo frowned in uncomprehension. "My name is Kerin,"

she went on, her soft brown eyes s.h.i.+fting to Conan like a light-fingered caress. "And by those shoulders, you must be the Conan Ariane spoke of. I work in clay, though I hope to have my sculpture cast in bronze some day. Would you pose for me? I can't pay you, but perhaps...." Her mouth softened, full lower lip dropping slightly, and her eyes left no doubt what sort of arrangement she wanted with the muscular barbarian.

Conan had barely listened after the mention of posing. An image flashed in his brain of Ariane, posing on the table, and he was uncomfortably aware of his face growing hot. Surely she did not mean .... She could not want ....

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "You mentioned Ariane. Did she send a message?"

"Why did she see you first?" Kerin sighed. "Yes, she did. She's waiting in your room. To tell you something very important, she said." She ended with a slight smirk.

Conan sc.r.a.ped back his stool.

"Girl," Hordo said as the Cimmerian rose, "what is this posing? I might well do it." Kerin slipped into the seat Conan had vacated.

All the way across the common room Conan waited for Hordo's outraged shout, but when he looked back from the foot of the stairs the one-eyed man was nodding slowly, a delighted grin on his face. Laughing, Conan ran up the stirs. It seemed his friend would receive more than good value for his silver piece.

Upstairs the narrow hall was lined with many doors, most crudely made, for the original chambers had been roughly part.i.tioned into more. When Conan pushed open his own rude plank door, Ariane was standing below the small window high in the wall. His cloak was still wrapped tightly around her, her fists showing at the neck where she held it together.

He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it.

"I pose," she said without preamble. Her eyes glinted with something he could not quite read. "I pose for my friends, who cannot hire models. I do it often, and never have I felt embarra.s.sment. Never until today."

"I merely looked at you," he said quietly.