Conan: Road of Kings Page 4

  Conan bit the head off of the chicken carcass, laughed over a mouthful of crunching bones.

  Mordermi grunted. “Well, this is it then. Stay here while Rimanendo’s fools wait for you to escape. I know men. I saw what you can do there on the scaffold. And any man who could kill Rinnova in a fair duel has more to him than just guts and muscle. I can use you, Conan. My men and I live pretty well, as you can see, and I see to it that every man gets a fair share. You’ll make a damn sight better pay with me than as a mercenary, and the risks are about the same. Give things a little time to cool off—then if you want to show your heels to Kordava, you can do it loaded down with gold.”

  “Softly, Mordermi!” Santiddio protested. He was vigorously towelling his lean frame. “You forget that Conan is not just another of your common thugs. He’s a man of natural principles and a political prisoner, as was I.”

  “A barbarian mercenary…?” Mordermi started to protest.

  “And a man of native honor may entertain understandable scruples at the invitation to join a gang of thieves,” Santiddio shouted him down. “Conan, you should know that our motives are the highest. We are not bandits; we are altruists.”

  “Santiddio, I don’t think Conan…”

  “Enough, Mordermi! Your rescue this morning—an undertaking which, I will point out, entailed enormous risk and not one copper of profit for you—clearly proves that you are one of us. Conan, you have, of course, heard of the White Rose.”

  Conan, his mouth full of wine and chicken breast, had been looking toward Sandokazi for guidance. Her full lips sucked at an orange, but her eyes smiled amusement. Conan worked to swallow. Was the White Rose that dive where …

  Santiddio liked the sound of his own words too much to require a reply. “As you know, the White Rose is the revolutionary army dedicated to the overthrow of King Rimanendo and his corrupt court, and to the establishment of a free republic of the Zingaran people. Doubtless you will have seen our broadsides—we circulate them faster than Rimanendo’s stooges can tear them down. Or you may have read our leaflets, perhaps even my own most recent pamphlet—the one that led to our acquaintance under the gallows.”

  Conan nodded politely, licking grease from his fingers. The chicken had taken enough of the edge from his appetite to restore his equanimity. He did vaguely recall some sort of furor in the barracks over the discovery of certain treasonous documents, some discussion of a secret society Rimanendo wanted rooted out. Such was a matter for the city guard to bother about, not for Zingara’s mercenary companies, and Conan found political arguments as dull and fruitless as that other conversational exercise that so obsessed learned fools: religious discussions.

  “Republic?” Conan struggled with the unfamiliar Zingaran term. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure that your native tongue includes the concept,” Santiddio said airily. “It is a creation of the most modern political thought. I don’t know what you might call it—a commonwealth, perhaps, where people choose their rulers instead of accepting those the gods place over them. The idea is somewhat akin to the practices of certain primitive tribes who elect their chiefs.”

  Santiddio caught himself quickly. “Primitive meaning, in other words, ah, certain barbarian peoples…” He tried to recall in what manner the Cimmerians governed themselves.

  “You said the White Rose was an army,” Conan prompted. “Where are your soldiers?”

  “The people of Zingara are our soldiers,” Santiddio informed him, waving his arms to include the world. “For our cause is the cause of all men who seek freedom from the tyranny of a corrupt and willful despot.”

  Conan had been about to ask where their headquarters were, but now thought better of it. “And your officers? Who are they?”

  “We have no officers—at least, not in the sense you mean,” Santiddio hedged. “We have leaders, of course—but our leaders are men chosen by ourselves from our own ranks, not petty tyrants who secure their high position through wealth and birth.”

  “And who is the leader of the White Rose?” Conan persisted.

  “Well, we have no leader—at least no one leader, per se; that is, no one person to whom all others are subservient. This is not to say that we are leaderless, of course.”

  Conan nodded, tankard poised halfway to his mouth.

  “There are some, I suppose,” Santiddio went on, “who would say that I am the leader of the White Rose. Of course, we do have our factions—any movement does. Certainly, Avvinti has his adherents among the conservatives, as does Carico with his muddy ideas on communal property. And there are others prominent in our movement who have a certain following.”

  “Then who makes decisions?”

  “Ah! We all do. We have discussions, form committees to study all aspects of the situation—then we vote on a course of action. The powers to command are held by all.”

  Mordermi burst out laughing. “And if it had been left to your fellow florists, the ravens would be feasting on that glib tongue of yours, Santiddio. Do you know why the White Rose did nothing to secure your release? Because the committee designated to propose a rescue plan couldn’t agree whether to storm the prison or to subvert your guards, while Avvinti maintained that you were far more valuable to the movement as a martyr than as a writer of half-baked political pamphlets.”

  “That bastard, Avvinti! I’ll kill him!” Santiddio flared. “But I thought Sandokazi has convinced you to throw your lot in with us.”

  “Sandokazi was persuasive, I’ll grant you—but the rescue today was entirely on my own initiative.”

  “That bastard Avvinti!” Santiddio’s face was murderous. “I’ll give him his chance to earn a martyr’s glory.”

  Fuming, he struggled into the fresh garments Sandokazi had brought him. One of the whores made to help him with his trunk hose, but Santiddio impatiently brushed her away, and hopped about the room cursing to himself.

  Conan’s attendant brought razor and mirror. She would have shaved him, but Conan didn’t care to allow another hand to bring sharp steel that close to his throat. Letting her hold the mirror, he scraped at the growth of beard. Santiddio had no more than trimmed his own prison growth to its customary length.

  “The situation in brief, Conan,” Santiddio continued, as he busied himself tying his points, “is that Mordermi is in sympathy with the goals and principles of the White Rose, even though the conceited ass considers us little more than idealists and visionaries.”

  “You and your friends tell the poor that the wealth of Rimanendo’s court rightfully belongs to them,” Mordermi said caustically. “I take those riches from Rimanendo’s nobles and give them to the oppressed.”

  “After exacting a profit.”

  “I have my expenses to contend with, Santiddio dear. You are the one who speaks of altruism.”

  “Mordermi!” Santiddio whirled to fix the outlaw with an accusing finger. “Beneath that cynical front beats a heart of stone. ’Kazi, where is my sword?”

  Sandokazi spoke to one of the whores. The girl disappeared, returned shortly with a rapier in a slightly mildewed scabbard. Santiddio slid the double-edged blade from its scabbard, eyed it critically for a moment and made a few passes. Conan watched his movements with interest. Santiddio was quick with words; his talent was not confined to verbal fencing.

  “Avvinti, it is time for a dialogue,” Santiddio murmured, returning the blade to its sheath and belting it to his waist. “Conan, are you an oyster that you will soak in your shell all day?”

  “Just bring me my clothes,” Conan suggested.

  “They crawled away,” Sandokazi laughed. “The lice claimed them in the name of King Rimanendo, and carried them back to the prison for dessert. The girls are finding clothes to fit you.”

  Conan handed the razor back to his doxy, washed the soap from his face. The water, he decided, had reached that point at which it was as likely to deposit dirt on his skin as wash it off, but at least he’d cleansed the stench of prison fro
m his flesh. He climbed out of the tub, wrestled with the whore for the towel. Sandokazi watched him with ironic amusement, chewing at her orange.

  By the time he had dried himself, they had brought fresh garments—clean, if not particularly new. Conan worked his legs into a pair of leather trousers, tight against his damp skin, and drew a loose-sleeved shirt of burgundy stuff over his head. His boots had been cleaned and hastily mended where the iron cuffs had gouged. There was a sleeveless houppelande, its brocade somewhat frayed, that made a snug fit across his chest—Conan suspected its original wearer had been a man of stout proportions—and a slouch-brimmed hat that Conan tried and discarded.

  “Not bad,” Santiddio judged. “You aren’t going to be mistaken for one of Rimanendo’s counts, but then again, you’ll pass in a crowd.”

  Sandokazi laughed cynically.

  “I’m sure we can obtain a more suitable costume, given time,” Mordermi said smoothly. “Something a trifle more in the mode perhaps. After all, the guard will be looking for a ragged barbarian.”

  “I’ll settle for a good sword,” Conan told him.

  “That much is easily done. Our arsenal is better stocked than our haberdashery here,” Mordermi smiled. “A fine rapier perhaps? We have several to choose from as to edge and blade length. Or do you prefer the hand-and-a half sword with which you dispatched Captain Rinnova?”

  “A broadsword would suit me better,” Conan hazarded. He would have preferred the two-handed double-edged straight sword, but doubted that he would find one readily here.

  “Of course,” Mordermi remarked. “You’ll want to choose your own from those we have, so I’ll take you to our storeroom. My men and I steal only the very finest for ourselves.”

  “I’ll pay you for all this when I can,” Conan remembered.

  “Pay us?” Mordermi clapped his shoulder. “Conan, I told you it’s all stolen. Besides, without your intercession this morning, my rescue attempt would have been in just past the nick of time.”

  “We but distribute to the people the products of their own labor, wrongfully appropriated from them by an unjust economic structure…”

  “Oh, shut up, Santiddio!” Mordermi groaned. “Conan isn’t joining us to hear your prattle!”

  “But you are joining us?” Santiddio asked him.

  Conan shrugged. “I joined Rimanendo’s army in good faith; his government betrayed me. I killed an overbearing bully in a fight he demanded; General Korst would have hanged me. I don’t quite understand your fine talk and theories, Santiddio, but I owe a grudge against Rimanendo and his tools—and I owe Mordermi for a sword.”

  Four

  Steel and Dreamers

  “He and his friends may argue and posture like scatterbrained fools, but Santiddio’s ideas are basically sound ones,” Mordermi commented.

  Somewhat defensively, so Conan thought. He studied the blade with a critical eye. There were several broadswords in the storeroom that Mordermi had dubbed his arsenal; Santiddio and his sister had left them while Conan made his selection. This one had a blade of watered steel that claimed Conan’s attention—such blades were uncommon in the west.

  “The two of you strike me as unlikely comrades,” Conan said, testing the sword’s balance.

  “Why not?” Mordermi laughed bitterly. “The Pit is a haven for frustrated dreamers—be their dreams of wealth and station, or of artistic and social ideals. Rimanendo rules over Zingara like a bloated vampire, growing fat on our blood while his nobles devise new schemes to steal our wealth and our freedom. In another realm Santiddio would be free to put forward his arguments in the public forum—there to be ridiculed as a fool, or honored as a champion of the common folk. In Kordava they hang those whose dreams tempt them to speak out against an oppressive tyrant, just as they hang those whose dreams tempt them to steal the riches that tyranny has denied them.”

  “Then you are part of the ‘people’s army’ of the White Rose?”

  “With all respect to Santiddio’s feelings, the White Rose is a debating society, not an army by any stretch. Santiddio’s friends represent the greatest intellects of Zingara, or so they tell me. They can quote to you from the massed political and social wisdom of countless philosophers and thinkers, living or long dead, in any language—but half of them couldn’t guess which end of a sword to grasp if you gave them three chances.”

  “I like this one,” Conan decided. It was a fine weapon—a straight, wide, single-edged blade, with basket hilt and a complex guard of loops and shells. The watering was extremely delicate, and the layers seemed of infinite number.

  “That is a splendid broadsword, isn’t it,” Mordermi agreed. “I’d be curious to know its history—the hilt isn’t original. I’m certain. I’d consider carrying that one myself perhaps, but the hilt is a bit clumsy for my hand, and a rapier is a more versatile weapon than the broadsword, I find. It’s a lighter, more nimble blade—gives you a long reach in fencing, with the edge for the slash and the point for the thrust. Tradition still demands the hand-and-a-half sword for duelling, but in time I predict you’ll see the rapier supplant the bastard sword, and the slash give way to the thrust.”

  “There’s not enough stopping power to a thrust from one of those narrow blades,” Conan disagreed. “I’ve seen a drunken Æsir mercenary take a rapier thrust through the heart, then go on to cut his slayer in half and kill two of his friends, before he stumbled over a bench and died. Split a man’s skull, and if he doesn’t fall, walk around and see what he’s leaning against. You can have your fine techniques and rapier thrusts. Give me a strong blade with a good edge, and I’ll cut my way out of any scrap.”

  “Of course,” Mordermi’s tone held just enough sarcasm that Conan didn’t miss it this time. “Well, I’m sure you made a believer out of Captain Rinnova though, didn’t you? Do you want to try it?”

  Mordermi drew his sword.

  “Just to be certain you like the balance,” he grinned. “First blood?”

  Although Conan disliked the sham bloodletting that civilized men considered well-bred virility, the proposal was innocent enough. Conan wished he could read the lambent moods that flickered behind the veil of Mordermi’s eyes.

  Mordermi guarded himself, waiting politely for Conan to initiate the play. Conan, feeling foolish, made an awkward thrust that Mordermi easily evaded. There was nothing awkward to Mordermi’s riposte, and Conan caught the rapier point upon his guard at the final instant.

  Angered, Conan flung aside Mordermi’s blade, rotated his wrist for an upward slash in the same movement. At the last moment he realized the swordtip would inflict a crippling wound to his friend’s brachial plexus; he turned the point just as it touched the armpit, and Mordermi shivered away in the split second that Conan’s hesitation had given him.

  The slash would have inflicted permanent injury; shaken, Conan reminded himself that this was only a game. Mordermi felt no such qualms; before Conan could recover, his blade slashed for the Cimmerian’s face. Conan parried desperately, but Mordermi was faster. Their blades rang together, sprang away. Conan felt a tug alongside his jaw. Already his broadsword, following the instinctive movement of his swordarm, was again engaged with Mordermi’s blade as the other sought to withdraw. The heavier blade caught the rapier near its hilt, snagged the elaborate guard, and the force of Conan’s blow ripped the hilt from Mordermi’s hand.

  “Conan!”

  Sandokazi’s scream snapped him to awareness. His broadsword was raised for a killing blow. Mordermi was spinning to reach for his rapier—seemingly suspended in midair.

  Conan froze. The rapier struck the floor, bounded upward. Mordermi caught it up.

  “You’re bleeding,” Mordermi said calmly.

  Conan touched his jaw. There was warm wetness from the shallow cut there.

  “What madness is this?” Sandokazi demanded. “I heard the clash of steel…”

  “Sorry,” Conan muttered sheepishly, looking at the blood on his fingers. “I’m not used to
doing this for sport.”

  “I should have known better than to relax my guard,” Mordermi said easily. “No matter. The exercise was instructive.”

  “Mitra, what were you two…?”

  “Conan wanted to try the balance of his broadsword, and I was curious to test the swordarm that mastered Rinnova,” Mordermi told her. “Conan has a theory…”

  “That was a slash you used,” Conan protested, remembering.

  “As I said, a rapier is a versatile weapon,” Mordermi shrugged. “You should have seen this, ’Kazi. Conan wields that broadsword as if it were an extension of his arm and no heavier than his finger.”

  “And you call Santiddio scatterbrained!” Sandokazi shook her head. “I think I’ll catch up with my brother and listen to him exchange verbal barbs with his rivals. No blood to clean up afterward.”

  “Oh, don’t bet on that,” Mordermi murmured, as she stalked away. “Even Santiddio and Avvinti must eventually exhaust their repartee.”

  “If I were this Avvinti, I wouldn’t want Sandokazi behind my back if it came to swordplay,” Conan mused. “She showed no remorse this morning when she rode over the trampled bodies on the Dancing Floor. That rescue must have cost the lives of as many bystanders as combatants.”

  “None of the Esanti blood ever let very much stand in the way of what they desired. You know, it was her idea to create a diversion with burning haywagons.” He examined the slash on Conan’s jaw. “I’ve cut myself worse shaving.”

  “The Esanti blood?” Conan queried, thinking Mordermi’s tone was edged with disappointment.

  “Yes, Santiddio and Sandokazi are of the Esanti line—very high born, didn’t you know? But I forget you are new to Kordava. The Esantis were one of the finest houses of Zingara. All that’s gone now, of course, and only the three of them remain.”