Conan the Buccaneer

Chapter Eighteen: A KINGDOM IN THE BALANCE

At sundown, Conan brought the Wastrel into the harbor of Kordava. A heavy overcast blotted out the stars as the day died.

Few eyes noted the lean carack as she glided silently into the great curve of the harbor and nosed gently into a little-used moorage at the far end of the quays. Conan thought it wise to enter the city as unobtrusively as possible, since he did not know whether Duke Villagro had already seized the reins of power, nor how long Zarono and Thoth-Amon had been in the city.

That they had preceded him, he was certain when Zeltran touched his arm and pointed:

"Zarono's Petrel!" hissed the mate. "My Captain, it strikes me that, since nobody seems to be about, we could rush it and burn it …"

Conan grinned in the gloom. "Control yourself, my little fighting cock," he growled. "Who's being rash now? We play for bigger stakes. Our friends are probably not there, but up in Ferdrugo's castle, spinning their webs to entrap the old fellow."

The princess tugged at Conan's arm impatiently. "Let us hasten to the palace, Captain Conan! Your men can follow later. We must warn my father at once of the schemes against him, ere those traitors, Villagro and Zarono, can …"

"Easy all," said Conan with a grin. "A bit less hasty, girl! I've learned long since not to walk into a trap if I can avoid it. The rebel duke and this sorcerer Thoth-Amon may have already seized power, and to go straight to the palace were to play fly to their spider. Nay, I have another goal in mind …"

"What goal?" the girl demanded.

He smiled grimly. "First we shall visit the one place in Kordava where I shall be safe; the Nine Drawn Swords."

"The Nine Drawn Swords?" she repeated.

"Not the sort of place that ladies of your quality would patronize, but 'twill do for our purposes. Trust me, lass! Zeltran, I will take ten men. Fetch boat cloaks and lanterns, and see that all are well armed beneath their cloaks."

The streets were as silent as those of a necropolis. Sigurd, superstitious like all seamen, shivered as he stamped through puddles by Conan's side, while his hand fondled the hilt of his cutlass under his black cloak.

"Surely they are all dead or under a curse," he grumbled, peering about with wary eyes. Conan bade him hold his tongue for fear of arousing the watch.

Thus, none save the cats of Kordava saw the party of seamen that, muffled in black boat cloaks with their faces hidden, slunk silently through the alleys to the door of the Nine Drawn Swords. As they filed in, old Sabral came puffing up to the door, wiping his hands on his apron.

'' 'Tis sorry I am, but we are closed for the night," he said. "The government has told all taverns to shut up shop at sundown this night. So I'll have to ask you to … oh!"

Conan had doffed his hat, thrown back his cloak, and thrust the grim bronze mask of his face close to that of the taverner. "What's that, my friend?" he murmured.

"Ah, had I but known you at first… But of course the Nine Drawn Swords be always open to Captain Conan, laws or no laws. Come in, lads, come in. 'Twill take a bit of time to light the fires and break out the drinkables, but what ye want ye shall have."

"Why should the government ask you to close early tonight?" asked Conan, settling himself at ease where he could watch the door.

The fat innkeeper shrugged. "Mitra only knows, Captain! A royal decree from the palace, came out yestereve… These be strange times, strange times indeed. First Captain Zarono comes ashore, the gods know whence, with a squad of dusky Stygians amongst his crew, and walks right into King Ferdrugo's palace as if he owned the place. Not a word said to him, as if he'd laid the king's people under a spell. And then all these new decrees: the city gates shut at sundown, and so forth. Duke Villagro made provost marshal, and the city placed under martial law. Passing strange, captain; passing strange it be. And no good will come of it, you mark my words!"

"That's curious," said Sigurd.

"What's curious?" asked Conan.

"Well, Dagda's eye and Orvandel's toe! Your friend Sabral says the city's locked up as tight as a drum, but we sailed into the harbor without a hail. Wouldn't you think Villagro would have set his cutthroats to guard the harbor?"

"They think the Wastrel is still lying on her side at the mouth of the Zikamba," said Conan.

"Ah, yes!" rejoined Sigurd. "I was forgetting. Zarono would never guess that, with the help of Juma's folk, we should get the ship repaired so swiftly."

Conan nodded. "Aye, redbeard. If all goes well now, King Ferdrugo may owe his throne to a black warrior he never heard or and will never see!"

"I've never thought much of the blacks before," said Sigurd. "They always seemed to me a pack of superstitious, childish savages. But your friend Juma opened my eyes. He's a real leader, even as you yourself are. Aye, there's heroes and there's scuts in every folk and nation."

But there was little time for idle talk. Conan queried Sabral, who volubly explained many things that the buccaneer guessed or feared might be taking place. Villagro had not yet seized the throne, but the event might be only hours away. Loyal garrisons had been sent to the borders on various pretexts. Officers noted for loyalty to the dynasty had been sent abroad, or dismissed, or arrested and jailed on trumped-up charges.

Since sundown of this day, the palace had been sealed off from the rest of the city. Key guard posts were held by Villagro's adherents. A ceremony of some kind was to take place in the palace; but just what, Sabral could not even guess.

"Abdication, is my guess," rumbled Conan, pacing the floor of the inn like a caged lion. "We must get into the palace. But how? Villagro and Zarono have it sealed up. This Thoth-Amon must have Ferdrugo firmly under his thumb. But if we can confront the king with his daughter, the shock might break the spell … Then we can have at the traitors. Where's that cursed Ninus? He should have been here half an hour gone…"

Sigurd wrinkled his brow. Conan had asked Sabral about the health of his little priestly friend. The Zingaran innkeeper had replied that the ex-thief had recovered and returned to the sanctuary of his temple. Thereupon, Conan had dispatched a sailor to fetch the man to the Nine Drawn Swords.

"Who is this Ninus?" queried Sigurd.

Conan shrugged impatiently. "I knew him years ago when he and I were thieves in Zamora. He returned to his native Zingara when even the scarlet city of Zamora became too hot for him. Here he fell in with a silver-tongued missionary of the Mitraist cult, who persuaded him that priests live on the fat of the land by playing on the fears and superstitions of honest burghers and bored housewives. Being one who always knew on which side his bread was buttered, he promptly got religion and became a priest of Mitra. But if there be anyone in Kordava who will know a secret entrance to Ferdrugo's palace, it will be he! He was the smartest thief I ever knew … even more so than Taurus of Nemedia, whom men called the prince of thieves. He could find doors no one else …"

A solemn gong note struck Conan's alert ears.

Chabela stiffened and sank her nails into the flesh of Conan's arm.

"The bells in the tower of all the gods!" she gasped. "Oh, Conan, we are too late!"

He bent a sharp gaze on her pale face. "What mean you, girl? Quickly, now!"

"The bells … they announce that the king holds audience! We are too late … it has already begun…"

Conan and Sigurd exchanged a quick look and thrust open a window to look up at the palace on the hill.

Lights flickered and moved to and fro. Chabela had spoken truly; the ceremony had begun.