"Your mother mourns," Yakoub said. "The other children—the neighbors have taken them in."
"Who are you, to play host in this house?" Bora asked. He had never quite trusted Yakoub, who was too handsome and too clearly city-bred, although a good man with the stock. He had come to Crimson Springs two years before, speaking of enemies in Aghrapur. His skill with the animals had made him welcome enough, and not only in Crimson Springs. Nor had he gone against the customs of his hosts.
"Who are you, to turn away help?" Caraya snapped. "Will you play master in this house, if it takes bread from the mouths of your kin?"
Bora raised his hands, feeling more helpless than usual in the face of his sister's tongue. It was not the first time he agreed with Iskop the Smith, who said that Caraya's tongue was deadlier than any weapon he had ever forged.
"Forgive me, Cara. I—I have not slept this night, and my wits are dulled."
"You look weary," Yakoub said. He grinned. "I hope she was worth it."
"If you spent the night with—" began Caraya, her voice tight with rage.
"I spent the night learning the secret of the demons," Bora snarled.
After that he lacked no attention. Caraya heated water and wiped his face, hands, and feet while Yakoub listened intently.
"This is not easy to believe," Yakoub said finally.
Bora nearly choked on a mouthful of bread. "Are you calling me a liar?"
"Nothing of the kind. I but state an important truth. What good does it do you to have seen this, if no one believes you?"
Bora felt ready to weep. He had thought of that as he left the valley, but had somehow forgotten it during the long walk home.
"Do not fear. I—I do not know if I have friends in Aghrapur, after two years. I am sure that my enemies will have enemies, who may listen to me. May I bear word of this to the city?"
Bora gathered his wits. He still did not wholly trust Yakoub. Yet who with the power to send the army into that demon-haunted valley would believe the son of a suspected rebel? A city-bred man with knowledge of Aghrapur the Mighty's mightier intrigues might be heard.
"By the bread and the salt I have eaten in this house," Yakoub said, "by Erlik and Mitra, and by my love for your sister Caraya—"
Again Bora nearly choked. He stared at Caraya. She smiled defiantly. Bora groaned.
"Forgive me," Yakoub said. "I could not make an offer for Caraya until Arima was wed. Now you are a troubled house, in mourning. I will wait until I return from—wherever I must go, to find those who will believe. I swear to do nothing to dishonor the name of the House of Rahfi, and to do everything to secure his release and your reward. Has it struck you, Bora, that you are blessedly lucky to be alive and sane?"
The only reply was a snore. Bora had fallen asleep on the rug, with his back pressed against the wall.
One
AGHRAPUR BEARS MANY names. Some are fit to be written down. Among these are "Aghrapur the Mighty."
"Aghrapur the Splendid," and "Aghrapur the Wealthy." None is a lie, but none is the whole truth, either.
Among men who know this royal city well, one name is thought the most truthful. It is a translation from the tongue of Khitai, for the man who first uttered it was a Khitan. He called Aghrapur "The City Where Anything That Cannot Be Found Does Not Exist Under Heaven."
An unwieldy name, as even its inventor admitted. But also the most truthful name ever given to Aghrapur.
The sun was long down, although the warmth of the day still clung to the stones and tiles. Those who could strolled in their courtyards or opened shutters to catch the breeze from the Vilayet Sea. Few were on the streets, save for the watch or those who had urgent business.
Much of that urgent business was less than lawful. Anything that could be found in Aghrapur could be found by day or by night, but if it was unlawful, it was easier to find it by night.
The captain of mercenaries, known as Conan the Cimmerian, sought nothing unlawful as he loped through the dark streets. He sought only a tavern called the Red Falcon, some of its best wine, a meal, and a wench for the night. Among them, they should take away the sour taste of the day's work.
To himself, Conan admitted that High Captain Khadjar had the right of it, when he said, "Just because you travel to Khitai and escort royal ladies doesn't mean your stones are rubies. You've a company to train. That means taking your share of the new recruits."
"Is a full score of witlings, ploughboys, and thieves really my share, Captain?"
"If you think yours are witlings, talk to Itzhak." Khadjar pushed the wine jug across the table to Conan. "By Black Erlik's beard, Conan, I show my trust in you! I know no captain twice your age who could knock more sense into recruits in less time. You owe it to those poor wretches to teach them what will keep them alive in the face of a Kozaki charge or an Iranistani ambush! Now drink up, hold your tongue, and go pay your debt."
Conan obeyed. He owed Khadjar not only obedience but respect, even when the Captain spoke as if Conan himself were but a recruit. It was Khadjar who had urged his promotion, put him forward for the secret journeys that made his name, and taught him much of what he knew about civilized warfare.
Cimmeria did not breed men who gave their loyalty easily. Its chiefs led by their own prowess and by the consent of the warriors who chose to follow them. Only the valor of those warriors and the remoteness and harsh climate of Cimmeria had kept it free of the rule of some more disciplined race. Cimmeria also did not breed fools who refused loyalty where it was deserved and earned. Khadjar had earned Conan's loyalty, but there was an end to it—for all that, Conan took as much pleasure in drilling recruits as he did in cleaning stables.
The Red Falcon stood near the top of the Street of the Twelve Steps, on the Hill of Madan. Conan climbed the hill with the ease of a hillman on a slope and the sinewy grace of a panther on the prowl. His eyes never ceased to roam from shadowed doorway to alley to rooftop, seeking lurkers. Twice he saw them; each time they let him pass. Robbers might take their chances with the watch; only fools challenged a man they could neither slay nor flee.
Conan's rank would have entitled him to a palanquin, but he never used them, save for when duty required it. He trusted neither the legs nor the tongues of slaves. Besides, he had been a slave himself on the winding road that brought him to Aghrapur.
A patrol of the watch trotted out of the shadows.
"Evening, Captain. Have you seen any trouble abroad?"
"None."
Another profession Conan had followed was that of thief. Thief-catchers, he believed, should do their own searching.
The patrol tramped off. Conan took the stairs at the Eleventh Step in two bounds, splashed water from a fountain on his hands and face, then turned in at the door of the Red Falcon.
"Ho, Conan! You look like a man who lost gold and found brass!"
"Moti, you've drunk too much of your own camel sweat to see anything clearly. Have you never spent a day breaking in new recruits?"
The scarred former sergeant of cavalry grinned. "Enough so that I pray to be an officer in my next life as a soldier."
Conan crossed the room, skirting the center where a pale-skinned Iranistani girl danced to tambourine and drum. She wore only a black silk loinguard, a belt of copper coins, and a shimmering coat of jasmine-scented oil. The rythmic swirling of her hips seemed about to divest her of even these scant garments. Watching her appreciatively, Conan noticed that the nipples of her firm young breasts were rouged. She also seemed able to move those breasts independently of one another.