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Meanwhile, Publius organized a rebel spy service. His agents penetrated far into Aquilonia. Some merely sought for news. Some spread reports of the depravity of King Numedides—reports which the rumormongers found needed no exaggeration. Some begged for monetary aid from nobles who, while sympathetic to the rebel cause, had not yet dared declare themselves in favor of rebellion.

Each day, at noon, Conan reviewed his troops. Then, in rotation, he took his midday meal in the mess tent of each company; for a good leader knows many of his men by name and strengthens their loyalty by personal contact. A few days after Prosperous talk about the public women of Messantia, Conan dined with a company of light cavalry. He sat among the common soldiers and traded bawdy jests as he shared their meat, bread, and bitter ale.

At the sound of a sibilant voice, suddenly upraised, Conan turned his head. Nearby, a narrow-faced Zingaran, whom Conan remembered having seen before, was orating with grandiloquent gestures. Conan left a joke caught in an endless pause and listened closely; for the fellow was talking about women, and Conan felt a stirring in his blood.

“There’s a certain dancing girl,” cried the Zingaran, "with hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes of emerald green. And there is a witchery in her soft red lips and in her limber body, and her breasts are like ripe pomegranates!” Here he cupped the ambient air with mobile hands.

"Every night she dances for thrown coppers at the Inn of the Nine Swords and bares her swaying body to the eyes of men. But she is a rare one, this Alcina— a haughty, fastidious minx who denies to all men her embrace. She has not met the man who could arouse her passion—or so she claims.

“Of course,” added Ouesado, winking lewdly, "there are doubtless lusty warriors in this very tent who could woo and win that haughty lass. Why, our gallant general himself— “

At that instant Quesado caught Conan’s eye upon him. He broke off, bent his head, and said: “A thousand pardons, noble general! Your excellent beer so loosened my poor tongue that I forgot myself. Pray, ignore my indiscretion, I beg you, good my lord—”

“I’ll forget it,” growled Conan and turned back frowning to his food.

But that very evening, he asked his servants for the way to an inn called the Nine Swords. As he swing into the saddle and, with a single mounted groom for escort, pounded off toward the North Gate, Quesado, skulking in the shadows, smiled a small, complacent smile.

When dawn came laughing to the azure sky, a silver-throated trumpet heralded the arrival of an envoy from King Milo. Brave in embroidered tabard, the herald trotted into the rebel camp on a bay mare, brandishing aloft a sealed and beribboned scroll. The messenger sniffed disdainfully at the bustling drill ground, where a motley host was lining up for roll call. When he thundered his demand for escort to General Conan’s tent, one of Trocero’s men led the beast toward the center of the camp.

“This means trouble,” murmured Trocero to the priest Dexitheus as they gazed after the Argossean herald.

The lean, bald Mitran priest fingered his beads. "We should be used to trouble by now, my lord Count,” he replied. “And much more trouble lies ahead, as well you know.”

“You mean Numedides?” asked the count with a wry smile. “My good friend, for that kind of trouble we are ready. I speak of difficulties with the King of Argos. For all that he gave me leave to muster here, I feel that Milo grows uneasy with so many men, pledged to a foreign cause, encamped outside his capital. Me seems His Majesty begins to repent him of his offer of a comfortable venue for our camp.”

“Aye,” added Publius, as the stout paymaster strolled up to join the other two. “I doubt not that the stews and alleys of Messantia already crawl with spies from Tarantia. Numedides will put a subtle pressure on the King of Argos to persuade him to turn against us now."

“The king were a fool to do so,” mused Trocero, “with our army close by and lusting for a fight!'

Publius shrugged. "The monarch of Messantia has hitherto been our friend,” he said. “But kings are given to perfidy, and expediency rules the hearts of even the noblest of them. We must needs wait and see. … I wonder what ill news that haughty herald bore?”

Publius and Trocero strolled off to attend their duties, leaving Dexitheus absently fingering his prayer beads. When he had spoken of future troubles, he thought not only of the coming clash but also of another portent.

The night before, his slumbers had been roiled by a disturbing dream. Lord Mitra often granted his loyal suppliants foreknowledge of events through dreams, and Dexitheus wondered if his dream had been a prophecy.

In this dream, General Conan confronted the enemy on a battlefield, harking on his soldiers with brandished sword; but behind the giant Cimmerian lurked a shadowy form, slender and furtive. Naught could the sleeper discern of this stealthy presence save that in its hood-shadowed visage burned catlike eyes of emerald green, and that it ever stood at Conan s unprotected back.

Although the risen sun had warmed the mild spring morning, Dexitheus shivered. He did not like such dreams; they cast pebbles into the deep well of his serenity. Besides, no recruit in the rebel camp had eyes of such a brilliant green, or he would have noticed the oddity.

Along the dusty road back to Messantia cantered the herald, as messengers went forth to summon the leaders of the rebel host to council.

In his tent, the giant Cimmerian barely checked his anger as his squires strapped him into his harness for his morning exercise with arms. When Prospero, Trocero, Dexitheus, Publius, and the others were assembled, he spoke sharply, biting off his words.

“Briefly, friends,” he rumbled, “it is His Majesty’s pleasure that we withdraw north to the grassy plains, at least nine leagues from Messantia. King Milo feels our nearness to his capital endangers both his city and our cause. Some of our troops, quoth he, have been enjoying themselves a bit too rowdily of late, shattering the king’s peace and giving trouble to the civic guard."

"I feared as much," sighed Dexitheus. "Our warriors are much given to the pleasures of the goblet and the couch. Still and all, it asks too much of human nature to expect soldiers—especially a mixed crowd like ours—to behave with the meekness of hooded monks."

“True," said Trocero. “And luckily we are not unprepared to go. When shall we move, General?"

Conan buckled his sword belt with a savage gesture. His blue eyes glared lionlike beneath his square-cut black mane.

“He gives us ten days to be gone," he grunted, “but I am fain to move at once. Messantia has too many eyes and ears to please me, and too many of our soldiery have limber tongues, which a stoup of wine sets wagging. I’ll move, not nine leagues but ninety, from this nest of spies.

"So let’s be off, my lords. Cancel all leaves and drag our men out of the wineshops, by force if need be. This night I shall proceed with a picked troop to study the route and choose a new campsite. Trocero, you shall command until I rejoin the army.”

They saluted and left. All the rest of that day, soldiers were rounded up, provisions readied, and gear piled into wagons. Before the next morning’s sun had touched the gilded pinnacles of Messantia with its lances of light, tents were struck and companies formed for the line of march. While the ghosts of fog still floated on the lowlands, the army got under way—knight and yeoman, archer and pikeman, all well guarded by scouts and flankers before, behind, and on the sides.