The short figure hurried through the dampness of the early morning, only now beginning to be awash in the rays of the rising sun. The storm had done much to rearrange whole streets and alleys; Loganaro picked his way toward what had been the Milk of Wolves Inn.
Even though the full might of the whirlwind had not struck the inn, there was left little to proclaim it so. The wooden bones of the inn lay mostly scattered; only a single wall remained, standing guard over the pile of rubble. Loganaro felt drawn to this wall, even as he wondered why he had returned to this place. He had a network of informants second to no other free agent in Mornstadinos; he should be locating runners to put forth the word on the barbarian, alerting his eyes and ears to the search. For some reason, however, he was here.
A few stunned men and women wandered about in the wreckage, searching for survivors and, perhaps, lost possessions. Loganaro watched them for a short while, then decided his own time was being wasted here. He turned to leave.
The rubble issued a groan. Or, rather, someone under the rubble moaned. Mildly curious, Loganaro moved toward the source of the sound. As he neared an overturned table, the free agent saw a hand scrabble up and shove at the remains of what had been a wall.
While Loganaro seldom performed any act without considering the gain for himself, he did so now. He bent and pulled at the impedimenta covering the owner of the hand. After a moment the face of the man under the debris became visible: It was Patch, one of Loganaro’s cutthroats. Loganaro helped the man dig free, noticing that the Zamorian seemed unscathed save for a swollen jaw.
“What happened?” Patch mumbled painfully.
“You do not know?”
“I remember nothing but the big man. He be a formidable foe, right enough. Where be the others?”
“There was a twisting storm which took them. It did this.” Loganaro waved one fat arm at the ruined inn.
“Got the barbarian, this twister?”
“Nay. He escaped with his friends.”
Patch nodded, gently rubbing his swollen jaw. “Then you be still seeking the big man.” It was not a question.
“Aye. And the reward has been raised.” Loganaro had not thought of this before he said it, but he had no desire to leave life just yet. He had accumulated a great deal of ill-gotten monies, and the thought of profit on this venture no longer drove him as much as the fear of joining his ancestors prematurely. “Thirty pieces of gold.”
Patch nodded, wincing. “Aye, a goodly sum, but who claims it shall have to earn it. Two, maybe three of my men lay dead ‘fore the big man felled me. The whirlstorm claimed more dead than living here. This one you be seeking owes me.”
“Alive,” Loganaro said. “He must be taken alive.”
“Aye, alive it be, but maybe some damaged.”
Loganaro nodded. Patch was reputed to be one of the best men in Mornstadinos at this kind of work; it would not hurt for him to have a personal stake in retrieving Conan.
“Collect him within the next two days and there will be a bonus of five solons for you personally,” Loganaro said.
Patch tried to grin, then apparently thought better of it as he clapped a hand to his swollen jaw. “Aye, pursemaster, you’ll have your barbarian. Alive.”
“Since it would seem that others seek us, in addition to Sovartus and his demon-thrall, it might be best if we stayed out of sight as much as possible until we can implement our plan,” Vitarius said.
Conan leaned against a rack of dried fish and chewed with less than enthusiasm on a chunk of jerky. The meat was salty and dry; he wished for some wine to wash the leathery beef down. Might as well wish for a palace in Shadizer while you are at it, Conan thought. Aloud, he said, “I see flaws in your plan, old one.”
Kinna took a piece of dried fish from the point of her sister’s blade and regarded it with mild distaste. She said, “What flaws?”
“Our master magician purports that we leave the city soonest, mounted and well-supplied, for a journey to beard the lion in his den. A direct assault is to my liking, but I question how we are to become affluent enough to afford this journey. Have we gold or silver of which I am unaware?”
Conan looked at the three faces in turn, seeing negative shakes and raised eyebrows for his answer.
“I thought not. How, then, do you propose we obtain fine horses, saddles, and sundry supplies? Will you create such with your magic’?”
“Ah,” Vitarius said, “unfortunately, no. White spells generally allow the worker little for personal gain.”
“A pity. If one must deal with magic, it is too bad one cannot benefit.” Conan grinned and picked at his teeth with his dagger’s point, clearing away bits of meat. “Now it seems we come to something that falls into my area of expertise. “
Eldia speared a chunk of dried fish with her blade, flipped it into the air, and caught it in her mouth. She chewed lustily, obviously enjoying the tidbit. “How so, Conan?”
Conan paused long enough to open the door of the drying shed, to allow the morning’s light into the dank room. The sun shone brightly from an ice-blue, cloudless sky. He looked back at the trio. “Tell me, who are the richest two or three men in the city?”
Vitarius scratched his cheek, considering. “Well, Tonore the rug merchant certainly would be one; then either Stephanos of Punt, the landlord, or Lemparius the Whip, I would think. Why?”
Conan ignored the question, asking yet another instead: “How do these men keep their wealth? Gold? Jewels?”
“Tonore’s money is tied up in his wares mostly. He has a collection of carpets from as far away as Iranistan and Zembabwei. Too, he collects works of art, statues and paintings mostly. Stephanos is a landowner, and I would say most of his wealth consists of inns, brothels, and other such properties. Likely somewhat reduced since last eve’s devilish storm. “
“What of Lemparius the Whip? And what does that mean?”
“He is the Center Strand of the Senate Flail, the most powerful of all the senators. In the city-states of Corinthia there are a few kings, but in Mornstadinos the people are ruled by a Senate. Many of the senators are wealthy, Lemparius probably more so than most.”
“And how does he hold his money?”
“He has a palace, very opulent, so I understand. And he has a fondness for magical and mechanical toys, upon which he spends no small amount; by and large, though, I suspect Lemparius has more than a few sacks of gold and silver within his walls.”
Conan’s grin increased. “Ah, good.”
Kinna spat a fish bone onto the dirt floor. “But-why are these things important, Conan?”
Conan faced the young woman, taken again by her beauty despite the dingy surroundings. “Because, Kinna, we need horses and supplies and cannot afford the time or effort needed to earn such things honestly.”
Eldia understood more quickly than did her sister. She said, “You mean we’re going to-?”
“-steal from the senator?” Conan finished. “Aye, Firechild, that we are.”
One of the items in a witch’s arsenal was a simple spell to create a magical, invisible thread of great length and strength. After she watched the beautiful barbarian and his friends enter the ramshackle shed, Djuvula created such a thread. Moving with all the stealth at her command, she stretched a section of this thread across the doorway, anchoring it lightly on either side of the entrance. When the inhabitants left the shed, the thread would entangle one or more of them, stretching to follow them from the shed as far as they might travel. The caster of the spell need only follow the glowing line, a line unseen by all without magically enhanced vision. There was a chance the old wizard might discover it, but such a possibility seemed unlikely: The spell was so simple and unthreatening, it almost always passed unnoticed save by one searching specifically for it.
The spell thrown, Djuvula hurriedly returned to her manse. The magic she contemplated required more than the small ingredients she normally carried upon her person. When that cantrip was completed, Djuvula could return and await her chance to get the beautiful barbarian alone. He would then deliver the girl to Djuvula. She smiled, thinking of it.
There existed some risk in the spell-the woman would have to be removed from the barbarian’s presence somehow-but such a risk was small compared to the possible gain.
In her spellroom Djuvula quickly stripped away her clothing, to stand naked in front of her focusing mirror. Nakedness was required for most of her major spells, but Djuvula had long since been undaunted by such a necessity. She had, in fact, come to enjoy the feel of air on her nude body, a sensual part of witchery that suited her much better than any clothing men could produce.
There was another inn, some distance away, of which Vitarius knew; he led Conan and the sisters from the shed toward this place. As they exited the home of dried meat and fish, Conan thought he felt a strand of spider’s silk brush his arm. He brushed at the line of web, but saw nothing, and so quickly forgot about it.
Even in the middle of disaster, people rallied and scurried to repair the damage. Already, teams of horses and oxen were at work, dragging rubble from pathways, clearing away downed timbers and adobe walls from alleys. As the four walked, they happened upon a further disaster in the making. Seven or eight men tugged on ropes attached to a fallen roof beam as thick as a fat man; the beam stood balanced precariously against a half-destroyed wall. The crew sought merely to topple the long timber in order, Conan thought, to bring down the fragment of wall that remained. That the men were inexpert was all too apparent to Conan; at least two of them stood directly under the heavy beam. If it should fall …
As he watched, the beam slipped from its support and came crashing down. One man jumped from under the falling weight with great agility, but the second man’s speed was not sufficient. The beam pinned the unfortunate victim to the ground as a man’s sandaled foot pins a snake. He screamed as the wood smashed both his legs to the dirt. The remaining men immediately began trying to lift the beam, cursing as they realized they had not the strength. It looked hopeless.
Conan sprang, unthinking. Such was the speed of his movement that the men gripping the timber jumped back, as if fearing attack.
The Cimmerian ignored them. He wrapped his great arms around the end of the fallen beam and squatted, so that he held the wood to his chest. He shifted his feet slightly wider and tried to stand. Individual muscles stood out on his thighs like a network of thick bands: the hard flesh of his bare arms writhed as though small animals roved under his skin. The beam did not move.
Conan adjusted his grip, took a deep breath, and screamed a wordless, guttural yell that caused the hair to stand on the necks of several watchers. With a contraction that caused his rock-hard thews to vibrate, the young giant stood, keeping his back stiff as his legs straightened. For a moment he stood there holding the giant beam, great veins standing out all over his exposed flesh like tiny snakes. Then the barbarian heaved the timber away from himself with a thrust of his hips. The heavy wood fell with a ground-shaking crash just past the end of the formerly trapped man’s feet. Conan shook himself once and stretched his shoulders. “Best you be more careful,” he said. “I might not walk this way again.” He turned and strode back to where his friends stood, staring.
Kinna spoke first. “By Mitra! No man can be so strong!”
Conan grinned. “What? For lifting that twig?” Are there no men where you come from?”
Kinna’s voice was soft and full of admiration. “None such as you.”
Conan grinned wider, pleased with himself. This was the kind of chore for a man, one that needed quick reactions and strength-and one that impressed women and men alike.
The Cimmerian felt the slightest touch upon his leg then, just where his leathern breech gapped over his boots, but when he looked there was nothing to be seen.
The Smoking Cat inn might have been constructed on the same pattern as had the Milk of Wolves. The same benches, the same tables, even the same servers. The place was not crowded; however, likely owing to all the work needed to be done outside. Conan and the others found a table easily, and ordered wine and breakfast. “Might as well spend what we have,” the Cimmerian said, “for we should have much more shortly.”
“Stealing from a rich man could be very dangerous,” Eldia said.
Conan smiled at the girl. “Aye. But I have some … experience in such things.”
“There is a high wall surrounding Lemparius’s estate,” Vitarius put in.
“They have yet to build a wall a Cimmerian cannot climb,” Conan said. He quaffed a cup of wine.
Kinna stared at him with curiosity in her eyes. Finally, she spoke. “How is it that you are so strong and so adept, Conan?”
He shrugged. “Cimmeria is a rocky land; ofttimes the rocks are in places where they impede a man’s progress. Such rocks must be moved; some of them are heavy. As to my skills, well, a man learns what he must to survive.”
“How are we to accomplish this-ah-liberation of valuables?” Vitarius said.
“Not ‘we,’ magician, me. I work best alone. You shall arrange today for our supplies; on the morrow I shall return with funds sufficient to pay for these things. Simple.” Conan lifted another cup of wine to his lips and smiled again. This was more to his liking, and what he should have done in the first place-then he would have never become entangled with the nasty webs of magic he so disliked.
Djuvula the Witch smiled as she followed the glowing line of the thread that led to her prey. Soon he would be hers!
Patch, the cutthroat, grinned evilly as he watched the barbarian drink his third cup of wine. Good. If the man were drunk, so much the better. He had planned to assemble a host of assistants earlier, but upon seeing the barbarian, Patch felt such a rage that he dismissed his earlier thoughts. No. He would strike when the big man was not prepared; he would knock him senseless and then work on the unconscious form with his bare hands and shod feet until he felt some measure of revenge. Aye, that be the way of it, to do it singly, to balm his wound and pride. No man defeated Patch and escaped unscathed. No man!