'Peril hides in the house of Aram Baksh!'
The speaker's voice quivered with earnestness and his lean, black-nailed
fingers clawed at Conan's mightily muscled arm as he croaked his
warning. He was a wiry, sun-burnt man with a straggling black beard, and
his ragged garments proclaimed him a nomad. He looked smaller and meaner
than ever in contrast to the giant Cimmerian with his black brows, broad
chest, and powerful limbs. They stood in a corner of the Sword-Makers'
Bazar, and on either side of them flowed past the many-tongued,
many-colored stream of the Zamboula streets, which is exotic, hybrid,
flamboyant and clamorous.
Conan pulled his eyes back from following a bold-eyed, red-lipped
Ghanara whose short skirt bared her brown thigh at each insolent step,
and frowned down at his importunate companion.
'What do you mean by peril?' he demanded.
The desert man glanced furtively over his shoulder before replying, and
lowered his voice.
'Who can say? But desert men and travelers _have_ slept in the house of
Aram Baksh, and never been seen or heard of again. What became of them?
_He_ swore they rose and went their way--and it is true that no citizen
of the city has ever disappeared from his house. But no one saw the
travelers again, and men say that goods and equipment recognized as
theirs have been seen in the bazars. If Aram did not sell them, after
doing away with their owners, how came they here?'
'I have no goods,' growled the Cimmerian, touching the shagreen-bound
hilt of the broadsword that hung at his hip. 'I have even sold my
horse.'
'But it is not always rich strangers who vanish by night from the house
of Aram Baksh!' chattered the Zuagir. 'Nay, poor desert men have slept
there--because his score is less than that of the other taverns--and
have been seen no more. Once a chief of the Zuagirs whose son had thus
vanished complained to the satrap, Jungir Khan, who ordered the house
searched by soldiers.'
'And they found a cellar full of corpses?' asked Conan in good-humored
derision.
'Nay! They found naught! And drove the chief from the city with threats
and curses! But--' he drew closer to Conan and shivered--'something else
was found! At the edge of the desert, beyond the houses, there is a
clump of palm trees, and within that grove there is a pit. And within
that pit have been found human bones, charred and blackened! Not once,
but many times!'
'Which proves what?' grunted the Cimmerian.
'Aram Baksh is a demon! Nay, in this accursed city which Stygians built
and which Hyrkanians rule--where white, brown and black folk mingle
together to produce hybrids of all unholy hues and breeds--who can tell
who is a man, and who a demon in disguise? Aram Baksh is a demon in the
form of a man! At night he assumes his true guise and carries his guests
off into the desert where his fellow demons from the waste meet in
conclave.'
'Why does he always carry off strangers?' asked Conan skeptically.
'The people of the city would not suffer him to slay their people, but
they care naught for the strangers who fall into his hands. Conan, you
are of the West, and know not the secrets of this ancient land. But,
since the beginning of happenings, the demons of the desert have
worshipped Yog, the Lord of the Empty Abodes, with fire--fire that
devours human victims.
'Be warned! You have dwelt for many moons in the tents of the Zuagirs,
and you are our brother! Go not to the house of Aram Baksh!'
'Get out of sight!' Conan said suddenly. 'Yonder comes a squad of the
city-watch. If they see you they may remember a horse that was stolen
from the satrap's stable--'
The Zuagir gasped, and moved convulsively. He ducked between a booth and
a stone horse-trough, pausing only long enough to chatter: 'Be warned,
my brother! There are demons in the house of Aram Baksh!' Then he darted
down a narrow alley and was gone.
Conan shifted his broad sword-belt to his liking, and calmly returned
the searching stares directed at him by the squad of watchmen as they
swung past. They eyed him curiously and suspiciously, for he was a man
who stood out even in such a motley throng as crowded the winding
streets of Zamboula. His blue eyes and alien features distinguished him
from the Eastern swarms, and the straight sword at his hip added point
to the racial difference.
The watchmen did not accost him, but swung on down the street, while the
crowd opened a lane for them. They were Pelishtim, squat, hook-nosed,
with blue-black beards sweeping their mailed breasts--mercenaries hired
for work the ruling Turanians considered beneath themselves, and no less
hated by the mongrel population for that reason.
Conan glanced at the sun, just beginning to dip behind the flat-topped
houses on the western side of the bazar, and hitching once more at his
belt, moved off in the direction of Aram Baksh's tavern.
With a hillman's stride he moved through the ever-shifting colors of the
streets, where the ragged tunics of whining beggars brushed against the
ermine-trimmed khalats of lordly merchants, and the pearl-sewn satin of
rich courtezans. Giant black slaves slouched along, jostling
blue-bearded wanderers from the Shemitish cities, ragged nomads from the
surrounding deserts, traders and adventurers from all the lands of the
East.
The native population was no less heterogenous. Here, centuries ago,
the armies of Stygia had come, carving an empire out of the eastern
desert. Zamboula was but a small trading-town then, lying amidst a ring
of oases, and inhabited by descendants of nomads. The Stygians built it
into a city and settled it with their own people, and with Shemite and
Kushite slaves. The ceaseless caravans, threading the desert from east
to west and back again, brought riches and more mingling of races. Then
came the conquering Turanians, riding out of the East to thrust back the
boundaries of Stygia, and now for a generation Zamboula had been Turan's
westernmost outpost, ruled by a Turanian satrap.
The babel of a myriad tongues smote on the Cimmerian's ears as the
restless pattern of the Zamboula streets weaved about him--cleft now and
then by a squad of clattering horsemen, the tall, supple warriors of
Turan, with dark hawk-faces, clinking metal and curved swords. The
throng scampered from under their horses' hoofs, for they were the lords
of Zamboula. But tall, somber Stygians, standing back in the shadows,
glowered darkly, remembering their ancient glories. The hybrid
population cared little whether the king who controlled their destinies
dwelt in dark Khemi or gleaming Aghrapur. Jungir Khan ruled Zamboula,
and men whispered that Nafertari, the satrap's mistress, ruled Jungir
Khan; but the people went their way, flaunting their myriad colors in
the streets, bargaining, disputing, gambling, swilling, loving, as the
people of Zamboula have done for all the centuries its towers and
minarets have lifted over the sands of the Kharamun.
Bronze lanterns, carved with leering dragons, had been lighted in the
streets before Conan reached the house of Aram Baksh. The tavern was the
last occupied house on the street, which ran west. A wide garden,
enclosed by a wall, where date-palms grew thick, separated it from the
houses farther east. To the west of the inn stood another grove of
palms, through which the street, now become a road, wound out into the
desert. Across the road from the tavern stood a row of deserted huts,
shaded by straggling palm trees, and occupied only by bats and jackals.
As Conan came down the road he wondered why the beggars, so plentiful in
Zamboula, had not appropriated these empty houses for sleeping quarters.
The lights ceased some distance behind him. Here were no lanterns,
except the one hanging before the tavern gate: only the stars, the soft
dust of the road underfoot, and the rustle of the palm leaves in the
desert breeze.
Aram's gate did not open upon the road, but upon the alley which ran
between the tavern and the garden of the date-palms. Conan jerked
lustily at the rope which depended from the bell beside the lantern,
augmenting its clamor by hammering on the iron-bound teakwork gate with
the hilt of his sword. A wicket opened in the gate and a black face
peered through.
'Open, blast you,' requested Conan. 'I'm a guest. I've paid Aram for a
room, and a room I'll have, by Crom!'
The black craned his neck to stare into the starlit road behind Conan;
but he opened the gate without comment, and closed it again behind the
Cimmerian, locking and bolting it. The wall was unusually high; but
there were many thieves in Zamboula, and a house on the edge of the
desert might have to be defended against a nocturnal nomad raid. Conan
strode through a garden where great pale blossoms nodded in the
starlight, and entered the tap-room, where a Stygian with the shaven
head of a student sat at a table brooding over nameless mysteries, and
some nondescripts wrangled over a game of dice in a corner.
Aram Baksh came forward, walking softly, a portly man, with a black
beard that swept his breast, a jutting hook-nose, and small black eyes
which were never still.
'You wish food?' he asked. 'Drink?'
'I ate a joint of beef and a loaf of bread in the _suk_,' grunted Conan.
'Bring me a tankard of Ghazan wine--I've got just enough left to pay for
it.' He tossed a copper coin on the wine-splashed board.
'You did not win at the gaming-tables?'
'How could I, with only a handful of silver to begin with? I paid you
for the room this morning, because I knew I'd probably lose. I wanted to
be sure I had a roof over my head tonight. I notice nobody sleeps in the
streets in Zamboula. The very beggars hunt a niche they can barricade
before dark. The city must be full of a particularly blood-thirsty brand
of thieves.'
He gulped the cheap wine with relish, and then followed Aram out of the
tap-room. Behind him the players halted their game to stare after him
with a cryptic speculation in their eyes. They said nothing, but the
Stygian laughed, a ghastly laugh of inhuman cynicism and mockery. The
others lowered their eyes uneasily, avoiding one another's glance. The
arts studied by a Stygian scholar are not calculated to make him share
the feelings of a normal human being.
Conan followed Aram down a corridor lighted by copper lamps, and it did
not please him to note his host's noiseless tread. Aram's feet were clad
in soft slippers and the hallway was carpeted with thick Turanian rugs;
but there was an unpleasant suggestion of stealthiness about the
Zamboulan.
At the end of the winding corridor Aram halted at a door, across which a
heavy iron bar rested in powerful metal brackets. This Aram lifted and
showed the Cimmerian into a well-appointed chamber, the windows of
which, Conan instantly noted, were small and strongly set with twisted
bars of iron, tastefully gilded. There were rugs on the floor, a couch,
after the Eastern fashion, and ornately carved stools. It was a much
more elaborate chamber than Conan could have procured for the price
nearer the center of the city--a fact that had first attracted him,
when, that morning, he discovered how slim a purse his roisterings for
the past few days had left him. He had ridden into Zamboula from the
desert a week before.
Aram had lighted a bronze lamp, and he now called Conan's attention to
the two doors. Both were provided with heavy bolts.
'You may sleep safely tonight, Cimmerian,' said Aram, blinking over his
bushy beard from the inner doorway.
Conan grunted and tossed his naked broadsword on the couch.
'Your bolts and bars are strong; but I always sleep with steel by my
side.'
Aram made no reply; he stood fingering his thick beard for a moment as
he stared at the grim weapon. Then silently he withdrew, closing the
door behind him. Conan shot the bolt into place, crossed the room,
opened the opposite door and looked out. The room was on the side of the
house that faced the road running west from the city. The door opened
into a small court that was enclosed by a wall of its own. The
end-walls, which shut it off from the rest of the tavern compound, were
high and without entrances; but the wall that flanked the road was low,
and there was no lock on the gate.
Conan stood for a moment in the door, the glow of the bronze lamp behind
him, looking down the road to where it vanished among the dense palms.
Their leaves rustled together in the faint breeze; beyond them lay the
naked desert. Far up the street, in the other direction, lights gleamed
and the noises of the city came faintly to him. Here was only starlight,
the whispering of the palm leaves, and beyond that low wall, the dust of
the road and the deserted huts thrusting their flat roofs against the
low stars. Somewhere beyond the palm groves a drum began.
The garbled warnings of the Zuagir returned to him, seeming somehow less
fantastic than they had seemed in the crowded, sunlit streets. He
wondered again at the riddle of those empty huts. Why did the beggars
shun them? He turned back into the chamber, shut the door and bolted it.
The light began to flicker, and he investigated, swearing when he found
the palm oil in the lamp was almost exhausted. He started to shout for
Aram, then shrugged his shoulders and blew out the light. In the soft
darkness he stretched himself fully clad on the couch, his sinewy hand
by instinct searching for and closing on the hilt of his broadsword.
Glancing idly at the stars framed in the barred windows, with the murmur
of the breeze through the palms in his ears, he sank into slumber with a
vague consciousness of the muttering drum, out on the desert--the low
rumble and mutter of a leather-covered drum, beaten with soft, rhythmic
strokes of an open black hand....