"Romna threw my sword at Conan. He dodged it, and left it on the
ground." Beudag's eyes were narrowed. "Conan could catch a flying sword
by the hilt, and he was the best fighter on the Red Sea, barring you,
Faolan."
"He's trying to trick us. Rann guides him."
"The hell with Rann!" Starke clashed his chain. "She wants me to kill
the both of you, I still don't know why. All right. I could have killed
Faolan, easy. But I'm not a killer. I never put down anyone except to
save my own neck. So I didn't kill him in spite of Rann. And I don't
want any part of you, or Rann either. All I want is to get the hell out
of here!"
Beudag said, "His accent isn't Conan's. And the look in his eyes is
different, too." Her voice had an odd note in it. Romna glanced at her.
He fingered a few rippling chords on his harp, and said:
"There's one way you could tell for sure."
A sullen flush began to burn on Beudag's cheekbones. Romna slid
unobtrusively out of reach. His eyes danced with malicious laughter.
Beudag smiled, the smile of an angry cat, all teeth and no humor.
Suddenly she walked toward Starke, her head erect, her hands swinging
loose and empty at her sides. Starke tensed warily, but the blood
leaped pleasantly in his borrowed veins.
Beudag kissed him.
Starke dropped the chain. He had something better to do with his hands.
After a while he raised his head for breath, and she stepped back, and
whispered wonderingly,
"It isn't Conan."
* * * * *
The hall had been cleared. Starke had washed and shaved himself. His
new face wasn't bad. Not bad at all. In fact, it was pretty damn good.
And it wasn't known around the System. It was a face that could own a
million credits and no questions asked. It was a face that could have a
lot of fun on a million credits.
All he had to figure out now was a way to save the neck the face was
mounted on, and get his million credits back from that beautiful
she-devil named Rann.
He was still chained, but the straw had been cleaned up and he wore
a leather kilt and a pair of sandals. Faolan sat in his high seat
nursing a flagon of wine. Beudag sprawled wearily on a fur rug beside
him. Romna sat cross-legged, his eyes veiled sleepily, stroking soft
wandering music out of his harp. He looked fey. Starke knew his
swamp-edgers. He wasn't surprised.
"This man is telling the truth," Romna said. "But there's another mind
touching his. Rann's, I think. Don't trust him."