Conan the adaptable, p.97
Conan the Adaptable, page 97
Juret himself was not a member of that service. His status was unique; he was one of those ubiquitous Kosalans who steadily build the empire, moving obscurely behind the scenes, and letting other men take the credit, —men in uniforms, or loud-voiced men with titles.
Few knew just what Juret’s commission was, or what niche he filled in the official structure; but the epitome of the man and his career was once embodied in the request of a harried deputy commissioner: “Hell on the border; send Juret!” Because of his unadvertised activities, troops did not march and cannons did not boom on more occasions than the general public ever realized. So it was not really surprising—except to those die-hards who refuse to believe that maintaining peace on the Afghul Border is fundamentally different from keeping order in his native Kosala —that Juret should be riding forth in the company of hairy cutthroats to arbitrate a bloody hill feud at the request of an Eastern despot.
Juret was of medium height and stockily, almost chubbily, built, though there were unexpected muscles under his ruddy skin. His hair was taffy-colored, his eyes blue, wide and deceptively ingenuous. He wore civilian khakis and a huge sun helmet. If he was armed the fact was not apparent. His frank, faintly freckled face was not unpleasant, but it displayed little evidence of the razor-sharp brain that worked behind it.
He jogged along as placidly as if he were ambling down a lane in his native Suffolk, and he was more at ease than the ruffians who accompanied him —four wild-looking, ragged tribesmen under the command of a patriarch whose stately carriage and gray-shot pointed beard did not conceal the innate savagery reflected in his truculent visage. Baber Ali, uncle of Afdal Khan, was old, but his back was straight as a trooper’s, and his gaunt frame was wolfishly hard. He was his nephew’s right-hand man, possessing all Afdal Khan’s ferocity, but little of his subtlety and cunning.
They were following a trail that looped down a steep slope which fell away for a thousand feet into a labyrinth of gorges. In a valley a mile to the south, Juret sighted a huddle of charred and blackened ruins.
“A village, Baber?” he asked.
Baber snarled like an old wolf.
“Aye! That was Khuttak! Conan and his devils burned it and slew every man able to bear arms.”
Juret looked with new interest. It was such things as that he had come to stop, and it was Conan he was now riding to see.
“Conan is a son of Yog,” growled old Baber.
“Not a village of Afdal Khan’s remains unburned save only Khoruk itself. And of the outlying towers, only my sangar remains, which lies between this spot and Khoruk. Now he has seized the cavern called Akbar’s Castle, and that is in Wazuli territory. By Yog, for an hour we have been riding in country claimed by us Wazuli, but now it has become a no man’s land, a border strewn with corpses and burned villages, where no man’s life is safe. At any moment we may be fired upon.”
“Conan has given his word,” reminded Juret.
“His word is not wind,” admitted the old ruffian grudgingly.
They had dropped down from the heights and were traversing a narrow plateau that broke into a series of gorges at the other end. Juret thought of the letter in his pocket, which had come to him by devious ways. He had memorized it, recognizing its dramatic value as a historical document.
Juret,
Ghazrael Fort:
If you want to parley, come to Yog’s Minaret, alone. Let your escort stop outside the mouth of the gorge. They won’t be molested, but if any Wazuli follows you into the gorge, he’ll be shot.
Conan.
Concise and to the point. Parley, eh? The man had assumed the role of a general carrying on a regular war, and left no doubt that he considered Juret, not a disinterested arbiter, but a diplomat working in the interests of the opposing side.
“We should be near the Gorge of the Minaret,” said Juret.
Baber Ali pointed. “There is its mouth.”
“Await me here.”
Suleiman dismounted and eased his steed’s girths. The Afghulis climbed down uneasily, hugging their bows and scanning the escarpments. Somewhere down that winding gorge Conan was lurking with his vengeful warriors. The Wazuli were afraid. They were miles from Khoruk, in the midst of a region that had become a bloody debatable ground through slaughter on both sides. They instinctively looked toward the southwest where, miles away, lay the crag-built village of Kurram.
Baber twisted his beard and gnawed the corner of his lip. He seemed devoured by an inward fire of anger and suspicion which would not let him rest.
“You will go forward from this point alone, sahib?”
Juret nodded, gathering up his reins.
“He will kill you!”
“I think not.”
Juret knew very well that Baber Ali would never have thus placed himself within Conan’s reach unless he placed full confidence in the Cimmerian’s promise of safety.
“Then make the dog agree to a truce!” snarled Baber, his savage arrogance submerging his grudging civility. “By Yog, this feud is a thorn in the side of Afdal Khan—and of me!”
“We’ll see.” Juret nudged his mount with his heels and jogged on down the gorge, not an impressive figure at all as he slumped carelessly in his saddle, his cork helmet bobbing with each step of the horse. Behind him the Afghulis watched eagerly until he passed out of sight around a bend of the canyon.
Juret’s tranquillity was partly, though not altogether, assumed. He was not afraid, nor was he excited. But he would have been more than human had not the anticipation of meeting Conan stirred his imagination to a certain extent and roused speculations.
The name of Conan was woven in the tales told in all the caravanserais and bazaars from Turan to Khitai. For three years rumors had drifted down the Zhaibar pass of intrigues and grim battles fought among the lonely hills, where a hard-eyed white man was hewing out a place of power among the wild tribesmen.
The Kosalans had not cared to interfere until this latest stone cast by Conan into the pool of Afghul politics threatened to spread ripples that might lap at the doors of foreign palaces. Hence Juret, jogging down the winding Gorge of the Minaret. A strange sort of renegade, Juret reflected. Most white men who went native were despised by the people among whom they cast their lot. But even Conan’s enemies respected him, and it did not seem to be on account of his celebrated fighting ability alone. Conan, Juret vaguely understood, had grown up on the southern frontier of Cimmeria, and had a formidable reputation as a swordsman before he ever drifted East.
Juret had covered a mile from the mouth of the gorge before he rounded a bend in the rocky wall and saw the Minaret looming up before him —a tall, tapering spirelike crag, detached, except at the base, from the canyon wall. No one was in sight. Juret tied his horse in the shade of the cliff and walked toward the base of the Minaret where he halted and stood gently fanning himself with his helmet, and idly wondering how many bows were aimed at him from vantage points invisible to himself. Abruptly Conan was before him.
It was a startling experience, even to a man whose nerves were under as perfect control as Juret’s. The Kosalan indeed stopped fanning himself and stood motionless, holding the helmet lifted. There had been no sound, not even the crunch of rubble under a boot heel to warn him. One instant the space before him was empty, the next it was filled by a figure vibrant with dynamic life. Boulders strewn at the foot of the wall offered plenty of cover for a stealthy advance, but the miracle of that advance—to Juret, who had never fought in his own country—was the silence with which Conan had accomplished it.
“You’re Juret, of course.” The Northern accent was unmistakable.
Juret nodded, absorbed in his scrutiny of the man before him. Conan was a large man, with a squareness of shoulders and a thickness of chest that reflected unusual strength and vitality. Juret noted the black bolts of the heavy crossbow bolts jutting from his hips, the knife hilt projecting from his right boot. He sought the hard bronzed face in vain for marks of weakness or degeneracy. There was a gleam in the smouldering blue eyes such as Juret had never before seen in any man of the so-called civilized races.
No, this man was no degenerate; his plunging into native feuds and brawls indicated no retrogression. It was simply the response of a primitive nature seeking its most natural environment. Juret felt that the man before him must look exactly as an untamed, precivilization man must have looked some ten thousand years before.
“I’m Juret,” he said. “Glad you found it convenient to meet me. Shall we sit down in the shade?”
“No. There’s no need of taking up that much time. Word came to me that you were at Ghazrael, trying to get in touch with me. I sent you my answer by a trader. You got it, or you wouldn’t be here. All right; here I am. Tell me what you’ve got to say and I’ll answer you.”
Juret discarded the plan he had partly formulated. The sort of diplomacy he’d had in mind wouldn’t work here. This man was no dull bully, with a dominance acquired by brute strength alone, nor was he a self-seeking adventurer of the politician type, lying and bluffing his way through. He could not be bought off, nor frightened by a bluff. He was as real and vital and dangerous as a panther, though Juret felt no personal fear.
“All right, Conan,” he answered candidly. “My say is soon said. I’m here at the request of the Amir, and the Raj. I came to Fort Ghazrael to try to get in touch with you, as you know. My companion Suleiman helped. An escort of Wazuli met me at Ghazrael, to conduct me to Khoruk, but when I got your letter I saw no reason to go to Khoruk. They’re waiting at the mouth of the gorge to conduct me back to Ghazrael when my job’s done. I’ve talked with Afdal Khan only once, at Ghazrael. He’s ready for peace. In fact it was at his request that the Amir sent me out here to try to settle this feud between you and him.”
“It’s none of the Amir’s business,” retorted Conan. “Since when did he begin interfering with tribal feuds?”
“In this case one of the parties appealed to him,” answered Juret. “Then the feud affects him personally. It’s needless for me to remind you that one of the main caravan roads from Iranistan traverses this region, and since the feud began, the caravans avoid it and turn up into Turan. The trade that ordinarily passes through here, by which the Amir acquires much rich revenue, is being deflected out of his territory.”
“And he’s dickering with the Turanians to get it back.” Conan laughed mirthlessly. “He’s tried to keep that secret, because Kosalan guns are all that keep him on his throne. But the Turanians are offering him a lot of tempting bait, and he’s playing with fire—and the Kosalans are afraid he’ll scorch his fingers—and theirs!”
Juret blinked. Still, he might have known that Conan would know the inside of Afghul politics at least as well as himself.
“But Afdal Khan has expressed himself, both to the Amir and to me, as desiring to end this feud,” argued Juret. “He swears he’s been acting on the defensive all along. If you don’t agree to at least a truce the Amir will take a hand himself. As soon as I return to the capital and tell him you refuse to submit to arbitration, he’ll declare you an outlaw, and every ruffian in the hills will be whetting his knife for your head. Be reasonable, man. Doubtless you feel you had provocation for your attacks on Afdal Khan. But you’ve done enough damage. Forget what’s passed—”
“Forget!”
Juret involuntarily stepped back as the pupils of Conan’s eyes contracted like those of an angry leopard.
“Forget!” he repeated thickly. “You ask me to forget the blood of my friends! You’ve heard only one side of this thing. Not that I give a damn what you think, but you’ll hear my side, for once. Afdal Khan has friends at court. I haven’t. I don’t want any.”
So a wild Highland chief might have cast his defiance in the teeth of the king’s emissary, thought Juret, fascinated by the play of passion in the dark face before him.
“Afdal Khan invited my friends to a feast and cut them down in cold blood —Yusef Shah, and this three chiefs—all sworn friends of mine, do you understand? And you ask me to forget them, as you might ask me to throw aside a worn-out scabbard! And why? So the Amir can grab his taxes off the fat Iranistani traders; so the Turanians won’t have a chance to inveigle him into some treaty the Kosalans wouldn’t approve of; so the Kosalan can keep their claws sunk in on this side of the border, too!
“Well, here’s my answer: You and the Amir and the Raj can all go to hell together. Go back to Amir and tell him to put a price on my head. Let him send his Uzbek guards to help the Wazuli—and as many Turanians and Kosalans and whatever else he’s able to get. This feud will end when I kill Afdal Khan. Not before.”
“You’re sacrificing the welfare of the many to avenge the blood of the few,” protested Juret.
“Who says I am? Afdal Khan? He’s the Amir’s worst enemy, if the Amir only knew it, getting him embroiled in a war that’s none of his business. In another month I’ll have Afdal Khan’s head, and the caravans will pass freely over this road again. If Afdal Khan should win—Why did this feud begin in the first place? I’ll tell you! Afdal wants full control of the wells in this region, wells which command the caravan route, and which have been in the hands of the Afghulis for centuries. Let him get possession of them and he’ll fleece the merchants before they ever get to the capital. Yes, and turn the trade permanently into Turanian territory.”
“He wouldn’t dare—”
“He dares anything. He’s got backing you don’t even guess. Ask him how it is that his men are all armed with Turanian bows! Hell! Afdal’s howling for help because I’ve taken Akbar’s Castle and he can’t dislodge me. He asked you to make me agree to give up the Castle, didn’t he? Yes, I thought so. And if I were fool enough to do it, he’d ambush me and my men as we marched back to Kurram. You’d hardly have time to get back to the capital before a rider would be at your heels to tell the Amir how I’d treacherously attacked Afdal Khan and been killed in self-defense, and how Afdal had been forced to attack and burn Kurram! He’s trying to gain by outside intervention what he’s lost in battle, and to catch me off my guard and murder me as he did Yusef Shah. He’s making monkeys out of the Amir and you. And you want me to let him make a monkey out of me—and a corpse too—just because a little dirty trade is being deflected from the capital!”
“You needn’t feel so hostile to the Kosalans—” Juret began.
“I don’t; nor to the Iranistani, nor the Turanians, either. I just want all hands to attend to their own business and leave mine alone.”
“But this blood-feud madness isn’t the proper thing for a white man,” pa bolted Juret. “You’re not an Afghul. You’re a Cimmerian, by descent, at least.—”
“I am still a Cimmerian, and we know all about blood feuds,” grunted Conan. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve had my say. Go back and tell the Amir the feud will end—when I’ve killed Afal Khan.”
And turning on his heel he vanished as noiselessly as he had appeared.
Juret started after him helplessly. Damn it all, he’d handled this matter like an amateur! Reviewing his arguments he felt like kicking himself; but any arguments seemed puerile against the primitive determination of Conan. Debating with him was like arguing with a wind, or a flood, or a forest fire, or some other elemental fact. The man didn’t fit into any ordered classification; he was as untamed as any barbarian who trod the north, yet there was nothing rudimentary or underdeveloped about his mentality.
Well, there was nothing to do at present but return to Fort Ghazrael and send a rider to the capital, reporting failure. But the game was not played out. Juret’s own stubborn determination was roused. The affair began to take on a personal aspect utterly lacking in most of his campaigns; he began to look upon it not only as a diplomatic problem, but also as a contest of wits between Conan and himself. As he mounted his horse and headed back up the gorge, he swore he would terminate that feud, and that it would be terminated his way, and not Conan’s.
There was probably much truth in Conan’s assertions. Of course, he and the Amir had heard only Afdal Khan’s side of the matter; and of course, Afdal Khan was a rogue. But he could not believe that the chief’s ambitions were as sweeping and sinister as Conan maintained. He could not believe they embraced more than a seizing of local power in this isolated hill district. Petty exactions on the caravans, now levied by the Afghulis; that was all.
Anyway, Conan had no business allowing his private wishes to interfere with official aims, which, faulty as they might be, nevertheless had the welfare of the people in view. Juret would never have let his personal feelings stand in the way of policy, and he considered that to do so was reprehensible in others. It was Conan’s duty to forget the murder of his friends—again Juret experienced that sensation of helplessness. Conan would never do that. To expect him to violate his instinct was as sensible as expecting a hungry wolf to turn away from raw meat.
Juret had returned up the gorge as leisurely as he had ridden down it. Now he emerged from the mouth and saw Suleiman and the Afghulis standing in a tense group, staring eagerly at him. Baber Ali’s eyes burned like a wolf’s. Juret felt a slight shock of surprise as he met the fierce intensity of the old chief’s eyes. Why should Baber so savagely desire the success of his emissary? The Wazuli had been getting the worst of the war, but they were not whipped, by any means. Was there, after all, something behind the visible surface—some deep-laid obscure element or plot that involved Juret’s mission? Was there truth in Conan’s accusations of foreign entanglements and veiled motives?
Babar took three steps forward, and his beard quivered with his eagerness.
“Well?” His voice was harsh as the rasp of a sword against its scabbard. “Will the dog make peace?”
Juret shook his head. “He swears the feud will end only when he has slain Afdal Khan.”
“Thou hast failed!”
The passion in Baber’s voice startled Juret. For an instant he thought the chief would draw his long knife and leap upon him. Then Baber Ali deliberately turned his back on the Kosalan and strode to his horse. Freeing it with a savage jerk he swung into the saddle and galloped away without a backward glance. And he did not take the trail Juret must follow on his return to Fort Ghazrael; he rode north, in the direction of Khoruk. The implication was unmistakable; he was abandoning Juret to his own resources, repudiating all responsibility for him.
