The stranger glanced curiously into the larger chambers that they passed, where men sat at food and drink. Most of Khannon’s customers were typical Pelishtim: stocky, swarthy men with hooked noses and curly blue-black beards. Occasionally one saw men of the more slender type that roamed the deserts of eastern Shem, or Hyrkanians or black Kushites from the mercenary army of Pelishtia.
Khannon bowed the two men into a small room, where he spread mats for them. He set before them a great dish of fruits and nuts, poured wine from a bulging skin, and limped away muttering.
“Pelishtia has come upon evil days, brother,” drawled the Hyrkanian, quaffing the wine of Kyros. He was a tall man, leanly but strongly built. Keen black eyes, slightly aslant, danced restlessly in a face with a yellowish tinge. His hawk nose overhung a thin, black, drooping mustache. His plain cloak was of costly fabric, his spired helmet was chased with silver, and jewels glittered in the hilt of his scimitar.
He looked at a man as tall as himself, but who contrasted with him in many ways. The other had thicker limbs and greater depth of chest: the build of a mountaineer. Under his white kaffia his broad brown face, youthful but already seamed with the scars of brawls and battles, showed smooth-shaven. His natural complexion was lighter than that of the Hyrkanian, the darkness of his features being more of the sun than of nature. A hint of stormy fires smoldered in his cold blue eyes. He gulped his wine and smacked his lips.
Farouz grinned and refilled his goblet. “You fight well, brother. If Mazdak’s Hyrkanians were not so infernally jealous of outsiders, you’d make a good trooper.”
The other merely grunted.
“Who are you, anyway?” persisted Farouz. “I’ve told you who I am.”
“I am Ishbak, a Zuagir from the eastern deserts.”
The Hyrkanian threw back his head and laughed loudly, bringing a scowl to the face of the other, who said: “What’s so funny?”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Do you say I lie?” snarled the stranger.
Farouz grinned. “No Zuagir ever spoke Pelishtic with an accent like yours, for the Zuagir tongue is but a dialect of Shemitish. Moreover, during our fight with the Kushites, you called upon strange gods—Crom and Manannan—whose names I have heard before from barbarians of the far North. Fear not; I am in your debt and can keep a secret.”
The stranger half started up, grasping his hilt. Farouz merely took a sip of wine. After an instant of tension the stranger sank back. With an air of discomfiture he said:
“Very well. I am Conan, a Cimmerian, late of the army of King Sumuabi of Akkharia.”
The Hyrkanian grinned and stuffed grapes into his mouth. Between chews he said: “You could never be a spy, friend Conan. You are too quick and open in your anger. What brings you to Asgalun?”
“A little matter of revenge.”
“Who is your enemy?”
“An Anaki named Othbaal, may the dogs gnaw his bones!”
Farouz whistled. “By Pteor, you aim at a lofty target! Know you that this man is the general of all King Akhirom’s Anakian troops?”
“Crom! It matters as little to me as if he were a collector of offal.”
“What has Othbaal done to you?”
Conan said: “The people of Anakia revolted against their king, who’s an even bigger fool than Akhirom. They asked help of Akkharia. Sumuabi hoped they would succeed and choose a friendlier king than the one in power, so he called for volunteers. Five hundred of us marched to help the Anakim. But this damned Othbaal had been playing both sides. He led the revolt to encourage the king’s enemies to come out into the open, and then betrayed the rebels into the arms of this king, who butchered the lot. Othbaal also knew we were coming, so he set a trap for us. Not knowing what had happened, we fell into it. Only I escaped with my life, and that by shamming death. The rest of us either fell on the field or were put to death with the fanciest tortures the king’s Sabatean torturer could devise.” The moody blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve fought men before this and thought no more of them afterwards, but in this case I swore I’d pay back Othbaal for some of my dead friends. When I got back to Akkharia I learned that Othbaal had fled from Anakia for fear of the people and had come here. How has he risen so high so fast?”
“He’s a cousin of King Akhirom,” said Farouz. “Akhirom, though a Pelishti, is also a cousin of the king of Anakia and was reared at that court. The kings of these little Shemitish city-states are all more or less related, which makes their wars all quarrels within the family and all the bitterer in consequence. How long have you been in Asgalun?”
“Only a few days. Long enough to learn that the king is mad. No wine indeed!” Conan spat.
“There is more to learn. Akhirom is indeed mad, and the people murmur under his heel. He holds his power by means of three bodies of mercenary troops, with whose aid he overthrew and slew his brother, the previous king. First, the Anakim, whom he recruited while an exile at the court of Anakia. Secondly, the black Kushites, who under their general, Imbalayo, yearly gain more power. And thirdly, the Hyrkanian horse, like myself. Their general is Mazdak, and among him and Imbalayo and Othbaal there is enough hatred and jealousy to have started a dozen wars. You saw some of it in this evening’s encounter. Othbaal came here last year as a penniless adventurer. He has risen partly by his relationship to Akhirom, and partly by the intrigues of an Ophirean slave-woman named Rufia, whom he won at gaming from Mazdak and then refused to return when the Hyrkanian had sobered up. That’s another reason for there being little love between them. There is a woman behind Akhirom, too: Zeriti the Stygian, a witch. Men say she has driven him mad by the potions she has fed him to keep him under her government. If that’s true, then she defeated her own ends, for now nobody can control him.”
Conan set down his goblet and looked straight at Farouz. “Well, what now? Will you betray me, or did you speak truth when you said you would not?”
Turning in his fingers the ring he had taken from Keluka, Farouz mused. “Your secret is safe with me. For one reason, I too owe Othbaal a heavy debt. If you succeed in your quest ere I find means to discharge it, I shall bear the loss with serenity.”
Conan started forward, his iron fingers gripping the Hyrkanian’s shoulder. “Do you speak truth?”
“May these potbellied Shemitish gods smite me with boils if I lie!”
“Then let me aid you in your vengeance!”
“You? An outsider, who knows nought of the secret ways of Asgalun?”
“Of course! So much the better; having no local ties, I can be trusted. Come on; let’s make a plan. Where is the swine and how do we get to him?”
Farouz, though no weakling, recoiled a little before the primitive elemental force that blazed in the eyes and showed in the manner of the other. “Let me think,” he said. “There is a way, if one is swift and daring…”
Later, two hooded figures halted in a group of palms among the ruins of nighted Asgalun. Before them lay the waters of a canal, and beyond it, rising from its bank, the great bastioned wall of sun-dried brick which encircled the inner city. The inner city was really a gigantic fortress, sheltering the king and his trusted nobles and mercenary troops, forbidden to common men without a pass.
“We could climb the wall,” muttered Conan.
“And find ourselves no nearer our foe,” answered Farouz, groping in the shadows. “Here!”
Conan saw the Hyrkanian fumble at a shapeless heap of marble. “An ancient ruined shrine,” grumbled Farouz. “But—ah!”
He lifted a broad slab, revealing steps leading down into darkness. Conan frowned suspiciously.
Farouz explained: “This tunnel leads under the wall and up into the house of Othbaal, which stands just beyond.”