Conan the adaptable, p.79
Conan the Adaptable, page 79
“Without interference from him I began to build up the clan, first as a member of the ranks, from which I swiftly rose, then as prince of the clan, to which position I attained less than a year ago, by means and intrigues I shall not inflict upon you. I have reorganized the society, expanded it as of old, placed my spies in every country in the world. Of course Conan must have heard that the Black Tiger was stirring again; but to him it would mean only the spasmodic activity of a band of fanatics, without grander significance.
“But he would guess its true meaning if he knew that Abd el Khafid is the man he fought up and down the length and breadth of Hyboria, years ago!” The man’s eyes blazed, his voice vibrated. In his super-egotism he found intense satisfaction in even so small and hostile an audience as his prisoner. “Did you ever hear of the Golden Cave of the devil el Kabir?
“It lies within a day’s ride of the city, so carefully hidden that an army of men might search for it forever, in vain. But I have seen it! It is a sight to madden a man — heaped from floor to roof with blocks of gold! It is the offerings to the devil — custom dating from old heathen days. Each year a hundredweight of gold, levied on the people of the city, is melted and molded in small blocks, and carried and placed in the cave by the imams and the emir. And —”
“Do you mean to tell me that a treasure of that size exists near this city of thieves?” demanded Mellani incredulously.
“Why not? Have you not heard the city’s customs are unbending as iron? Only the imams know the secret of the cave; the knowledge is handed down from imam to imam, from emir to emir. The people do not know; they suppose the gold is taken by the devil to his infernal abode. If they knew, they would not touch it. Take gold dedicated to the devil the Damned? You little know the Oriental mind. Not a true man of the East in the world would touch a grain of it, even though he were starving.
“But I am free of such superstitions. Within a few days the gift to the devil will be placed in the cave. It will be another year then before the imams visit the cavern again. And before that time comes around, I will have accomplished my purpose. I will secretly remove the gold from the cave, working utterly alone, and will melt it down and recast it in different forms. Oh, I understand the art and have the proper equipment. When I have finished, none can recognize it as the accursed gold of the devil.
“With it I can feed and equip an army! I can buy an arsenal of weaponry, and mercenaries to use it. I can arm every cutthroat in the Himilaias! These hill tribes have the makings of the finest army in the world — all they need is equipment. And that equipment I will supply. There are plenty of sources ready to sell me whatever I want. And the gold of the devil will supply my needs!” The man was sweating, his eyes blazing as if madness like molten gold had entered his veins. “The world never dreamed of such a treasure-trove! The golden offerings of a thousand years heaped from floor to ceiling! And it is mine!”
“The imams will kill you!” whispered Mellani, appalled.
“They will not know for nearly a year. I will invent a lie to explain my great wealth. They will not suspect until they open the cave next year. Then it will be too late. Then I will be free from the Black Tigers. I will be an emperor!
“With my great new army I will sweep down into the plains of Vendhya. I will lead a horde of Afghulis, Iranistanis, Shemites and Turanians that will make up for discipline by numbers and ferocity. We will rise! I will sweep the foreigners out of the land! I will rule supreme!”
“Why do you tell me this?” asked Mellani. “What’s to prevent me from betraying you to the imams?”
“You will never see an imam,” was the grim reply. “I will see that you have no opportunity to talk. But enough of this: I allowed you to come alive to Rub-El-Harim only because I wanted to learn what secret password Darami gave you to use with the officials. I know you had one, by the speed and ease with which you were passed up to Khorshemish. I have long sought to get one of my spies into the very vitals of the secret service. This password will enable me to do so. Tell me what it is.”
Mellani laughed sardonically, then. “You’re going to kill me anyway. I certainly don’t intend to deprive myself of this one tiny crumb of retaliation. I’m not going to put another weapon in your filthy hands.”
“You’re a fool!” exclaimed Abd el Khafid, with a flash of anger too sudden, too easily aroused for complete self-confidence. The man was on edge, and not so sure of himself as he seemed.
“Doubtless,” agreed Mellani tranquilly. “And what about it?”
“Very well!” Abd el Khafid restrained himself by an obvious effort. “I cannot touch you tonight. You are the property of the city, according to age-old custom not even I can ignore. But tomorrow you will be sold on the block to the highest bidder. No one wants you as a slave, except for the pleasure of torturing. You are too soft for hard work. I will buy you for a few rupees, and then there will be nothing to prevent my making you talk. Before I fling your mangled carcass out on the garbage heap for the vultures, you will have told me everything I want to know.”
Abruptly he turned and stalked out of the dungeon. Mellani heard his footsteps reecho hollowly on the flags of the corridor. A wisp of conversation came back faintly. Then a door slammed and there was nothing but silence and a star blinking dimly through the barred window.
In another part of the city Shirkuh lounged on a silken divan, under the glow of bronze lamps that struck sparkling glints from the rich wine brimming in golden goblets. Shirkuh drank deep, smacking his lips, desert-fashion, as a matter of politeness to his host. He seemed to have no thought in the world except the quenching of his thirst, but Alafdal Khan, on another couch, knit his brows in perplexity. He was uncovering astonishing discoveries in this wild young warrior from the western mountains — unsuspected subtleties and hidden depths.
“Why do you wish to buy this woman?” he demanded.
“She is necessary to us,” asserted Shirkuh. With the bronze lamps throwing his face into half shadow, the boyishness was gone, replaced by a keen hawklike hardness and maturity.
“We must have her. I will buy her in the suk tomorrow, and she will aid us in making you emir of Rub-El-Harim.”
“But you have no money!” expostulated the Wazuli.
“You must lend it to me.”
“But Abd el Khafid desires her,” argued Alafdal Khan. “He sent ez Zahir out to capture her. It would be unwise to bid against the emir.”
Shirkuh emptied his cup before answering.
“From what you have told me of the city,” he said presently, “this is the situation. Only a certain amount of the citizens are Black Tigers. They constitute a ruling caste and a sort of guards force to support the emir. The emirs are complete despots, except when checked by customs whose roots are lost in the mists of antiquity. They rule with an iron rein over a turbulent and lawless population, composed of the dregs and scum of Eastern Hyboria.”
“That is true,” agreed Alafdal Khan.
“But in the past, the people have risen and deposed a ruler who trampled on tradition, forcing the Black Tigers to elevate another prince. Very well. You have told me that the number of Black Tigers in the city is comparatively small at present. Many have been sent as spies or emissaries to other regions. You yourself are high in the ranks of the clan.”
“An empty honor,” said Alafdal bitterly. “My advice is never asked in council. I have no authority except with my own personal retainers. And they are less than those of Abd el Khafid or Ali Shah.”
“It is upon the crowd in the streets we must rely,” replied Shirkuh. “You are popular with the masses. They are almost ready to rise under you, were you to declare yourself. But that will come later. They need a leader and a motive. We will supply both. But first we must secure the woman. With her safe in our hands, we will plan our next move in the game.”
Alafdal Khan scowled, his powerful fingers knotting about the slender stem of the wineglass. Conflicting emotions of vanity, ambition, and fear played across his broad face.
“You talk high!” he complained. “You ride into Rub-El-Harim, a penniless adventurer, and say you can make me emir of the city! How do I know you are not an empty bag of wind? How can you make me prince of Rub-El-Harim?”
Shirkuh set down his wineglass and rose, folding his arms. He looked somberly down at the astounded Wazuli, all naiveness and reckless humor gone out of his face. He spoke a single phrase, and Alafdal ejaculated stranglingly and lurched to his feet, spilling his wine. He reeled like a drunkard, clutching at the divan, his dilated eyes searching, with a fierce intensity, the dark, immobile face before him.
“Do you believe, now, that I can make you emir of Rub-El-Harim?” demanded Shirkuh.
“Who could doubt it?” panted Alafdal. “Have you not put kings on their thrones? But you are mad, to come here! One word to the mob and they would rend you limb from limb!”
“You will not speak that word,” said Shirkuh with conviction. “You will not throw away the lordship of Rub-El-Harim.”
And Alafdal nodded slowly, the fire of ambition surging redly in his eyes.
V
Swords In The Suk
Dawn streaming grayly through the barred window awakened Mellani. She reflected that it might be the last dawn she would see as a free woman. She laughed wryly at the thought. Free? Yet at least she was still a captive, not a slave. There was a vast difference between a captive and a slave — a revolting gulf, in which, crossing, a man or woman’s self-respect must be forever lost.
Presently black slaves came with a jug of cheap sour wine, and food — chupatties, rice cakes, dried dates. Royal fare compared with her supper the night before. A barber shaved her and trimmed her hair, and she was allowed the luxury of scrubbing himself pink in the prison bath.
She was grateful for the opportunity, but the whole proceeding was disgusting. She felt like a prize animal being curried and groomed for display. Some whim prompted her to ask the barber where the proceeds of his sale would go, and the man answered into the city treasury, to keep the walls repaired. A singularly unromantic usage for the price of a human being, but typical of the hard practicality of the East. Mellani thought fleetingly of Shirkuh, then shrugged her shoulders. Apparently the man had abandoned her to her fate.
Clad only in a loin cloth and sandals, she was led from the prison by the one-eyed Sudozai and a huge black slave. Horses were waiting for them at the gate, and she was ordered to mount. Between the slave masters she clattered up the street before the sun was up. But already the crowd was gathering in the square. The auctioning of a white woman was an event, and there was, furthermore, a feeling of expectancy in the air, sharpened by the fight of the day before.
In the midst of the square there stood a thick platform built solidly of stone blocks; it was perhaps four feet high and thirty feet across. On this platform the Sudozai took his stand, grasping a piece of rope which was tied loosely about Mellani’s neck. Behind them stood the stolid man of Darfar with a drawn scimitar on his shoulder.
Before, and to one side of the block the crowd had left a space clear, and there Abd el Khafid sat his horse, amid a troop of Black Tigers, bizarre in their ceremonial armor. Ceremonial it must be, reflected Mellani; it might turn a sword blade, but it would afford no protection against an arrow. But it was one of the many fantastic customs of the city, where tradition took the place of written law. The bodyguard of the emir had always worn black armor. Therefore, they would always wear it. ez Zahir commanded them. Mellani did not see Ali Shah.
Another custom was responsible for the presence of Abd el Khafid, instead of sending a servant to buy the woman for him; not even the emir could bid by proxy.
As she climbed upon the block, Mellani heard a cheer, and saw Alafdal Khan and Shirkuh pushing through the throng on their horses. Behind them came thirty-five warriors, well armed and well mounted. The Wazuli chief was plainly nervous, but Shirkuh strutted like a peacock, even on horseback, before the admiring gaze of the throng.
At the ringing ovation given them, annoyance flitted across Abd el Khafid’s broad, pale face, and that expression was followed by a more sinister darkening that boded ill for the Wazuli and his ally.
The auction began abruptly and undramatically. The Sudozai began in a singsong voice to narrate the desirable physical points of the prisoner, when Abd el Khafid cut him short and offered fifty rupees.
“A hundred!” instantly yelled Shirkuh.
Abd el Khafid turned an irritated and menacing glare on him. Shirkuh grinned insolently, and the crowd hugged itself, sensing a conflict of the sort it loved.
“Three hundred!” snarled the emir, meaning to squelch this irreverent vagabond without delay.
“Four hundred!” shouted Shirkuh.
“A thousand!” cried Adb el Khafid in a passion.
“Eleven hundred!”
And Shirkuh deliberately laughed in the emir’s face, and the crowd laughed with him. Abd el Khafid appeared at a disadvantage, for he was a bit confused at this unexpected opposition, and had lost his temper too easily. The fierce eyes of the crowd missed nothing of this, for it is on such points the wolf pack ceaselessly and pitilessly judges its leader. Their sympathies swung to the laughing, youthful stranger, sitting his horse with careless ease.
Mellani’s heart had leaped into his throat at the first sound of Shirkuh’s voice. If the man meant to aid him, this was the most obvious way to take. Then his heart sank again at the determination in Abd el Khafid’s angry face. The emir would never let his captive slip between his fingers. And though the Gift of the devil was not yet in the man’s possession, yet doubtless his private resources were too great for Shirkuh. In a contest of finances Shirkuh was foredoomed to lose.
Mellani’s conclusions were not those of Abd el Khafid. The emir shot a glance at Alafdal Khan, shifting uneasily in his saddle. He saw the beads of moisture gathered on the Wazuli’s broad brow, and realized a collusion between the men. New anger blazed in the emir’s eyes.
In his way Abd el Khafid was miserly. He was willing to squander gold like water on a main objective, but it irked him exceedingly to pay an exorbitant price to attain a minor goal. He knew — every man in the crowd knew now — that Alafdal Khan was backing Shirkuh. And all men knew that the Wazuli was one of the wealthiest men in the city, and a prodigal spender. Abd el Khafid’s nostrils pinched in with wrath as he realized the heights of extravagance to which he might be forced, did Shirkuh persist in this impertinent opposition to his wishes. The Gift of the devil was not yet in his hands, and his private funds were drained constantly by the expenses of his spy system and his various intrigues. He raised the bid in a harsh, anger-edged voice.
Mellani, studying the drama with the keen, understanding eyes of a gambler, realized that Abd el Khafid had got off on the wrong foot. Shirkuh’s bearing appealed to the crowd. They laughed at his sallies, which were salty and sparkling with all the age-old ribaldry of the East, and they hissed covertly at the emir, under cover of their neighbors.
The bidding mounted to unexpected heights. Abd el Khafid, white about the nostrils as he sensed the growing hostility of the crowd, did not speak except to snarl his offers. Shirkuh rolled in his saddle, slapped his thighs, yelled his bids, and defiantly brandished a leathern bag which gave out a musical tinkling.
The excitement of the crowd was at white heat. Ferocity began to edge their yells. Mellani, looking down at the heaving mass, had a confused impression of dark, convulsed faces, blazing eyes, and strident voices. Alafdal Khan was sweating, but he did not interfere, not even when the bidding rose above fifty thousand rupees.
It was more than a bidding contest; it was the subtle play of two opposing wills, as hard and supple as tempered steel. Abd el Khafid realized that if he withdrew now, his prestige would never recover from the blow. In his rage he made his first mistake.
He rose suddenly in his stirrups, clapping his hands.
“Let there be an end to this madness!” he roared. “No white slave is worth this much! I declare the auction closed! I buy this bitch for sixty thousand rupees! Take her to my house, slave master!”
A roar of protest rose from the throng, and Shirkuh drove his horse alongside the block and leaped off to it, tossing his rein to a Wazuli.
“Is this justice?” he shouted. “Is this done according to custom? Men of Rub-El-Harim, I demand justice! I bid sixty-one thousand rupees. I stand ready to bid more, if necessary! When has an emir been allowed to use his authority to rob a citizen, and cheat the people? Nay, we be thieves — but shall we rob one another? Who is Abd el Khafid, to trample the customs of the city! If the customs are broken, what shall hold you together? Rub-El-Harim lives only so long as the ancient traditions are observed. Will you let Abd el Khafid destroy them — and you?”
A cataract of straining human voices answered him. The crowd had become a myriad-fanged, flashing-eyed mass of hate.
“Obey the customs!” yelled Shirkuh, and the crowd took up the yell.
“Obey the customs!” It was the thunder of unreined seas, the roar of a storm wind ripping through icy passes. Blindly men seized the slogan, yowling it under a forest of lean arms and clenched fists. Men go mad on a slogan; conquerors have swept to empire, prophets to new world religions on a shouted phrase. All the men in the square were screaming it like a ritual now, rocking and tossing on their feet, fists clenched, froth on their lips. They no longer reasoned; they were a forest of blind human emotions, swayed by the storm wind of a shouted phrase that embodied passion and the urge to action.
