Conan of Venarium

Granth had stared and stared. So had a good many of the soldiers in the barracks, though they seemed more used to her presence than he was. In a hoarse voice, he asked, "Who is she?"

"She's Count Stercus' plaything," answered Captain Nario, looking up from his writing. He noticed that Granth's eyes had not left the doorway through which the Cimmerian girl had passed: noticed and started to laugh. "Don't hope you'll see her again coming out, my good fellow. She won't come out of there for quite a while."

"Oh." Granth felt foolish. His ears got hot.

Nario laughed again, so Granth supposed his flush was only too visible. He felt more foolish yet. He had been ready to face roaring Cimmerian warriors. How could a nearly naked Cimmerian serving girl unman him so? He mumbled, "She's too young," and looked down at the ground between his boots.

"Our distinguished commander would disagree with you, and his is the only opinion that matters," said Nario in a silky voice. "And now I am going to do you a considerable favor: I am not going to ask you what your name is."

For a moment, Granth did not see what sort of favor that was. He was a young man, and inclined to be naive. But then he realized what Captain Nario was driving at, and flushed again. This time, he knew precisely the mistake he had made. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"You are welcome." The officer finished writing, melted some sealing wax at a brazier, and used it and a ribbon to close his letter. The seal on his signet ring was of a fire-breathing dragon, which showed in reverse when he pressed it into the wax. He said, "Now you should make yourself unwelcome, if you follow my meaning, for others more zealous than I may have heard you and may be curious about your choice of words."

This time, Granth had no trouble taking the hint. He left the barracks in a hurry, with Vulth and Benno and Daverio trailing after him. For a wonder, none of his companions chaffed him until they were out of the encampment altogether. Then, leering, Benno asked, "Did you want to rescue the wench or just to keep her for yourself?"

"Mitra!" ejaculated Granth in an agony of embarrassment: was he as obvious as that? Evidently he was. Gathering himself, he said, "She was too young for such sport. She should be finding her first sweetheart, not—what Stercus is giving her."

All that won him was more teasing from the two Bossonians and his cousin. They kept it up just about the whole way back to Duthil. By the time he handed Nario's letter to Treviranus, he had decided he was never going to say another word to anyone else as long as he lived.

Men gathered in a little knot in the main —and almost only —street in Duthil. They spoke in low voices, too low for Conan to make out most of what they were saying. He got only snatches: "Her name is Ugaine… from Rosinish, to the east of… a foul lecher, if ever there…"

When one of the men noticed Conan, they all fell silent. He walked up to them, asking, "What is it?"

No one answered right away. No one looked as if he wanted to answer at all. At last, a farmer called Nucator said, "Well, maybe you'd best hear it from your father, lad, and not from us."

Conan glowered, not least because he already stood taller than Nucator, who was a weedy little fellow. "Hear what?" he demanded.

"Nucator is right," said Balarg, his voice smooth as butter. "This is a business for men." The rest of the Cimmerians in the knot nodded, plainly agreeing with the tailor.

That they agreed only made Conan angrier. He wanted to fight them all. That would show them who was a man. But the beating his father had given him before going off to war remained too painfully fresh in his memory for him to snarl out the challenge right away. None of these villagers was a match for Mordec —but Conan had proved to be no match for the blacksmith, either.

When he hesitated, nerving himself, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder from behind. "Here, what's toward?" asked Mordec, who like his son had been drawn by the sight of that group of men with their heads together.

Nucator beckoned the blacksmith forward. "We'll gladly tell you," he said, "though we were not sure if you would want your boy to hear of this."

"Stay here," said Mordec to Conan. Fuming, Conan had to obey. His father joined the rest of the village men, towering over most of them by half a head or more. Again, they spoke in low voices. Again, Conan heard bits of what they said, but not enough to tell him what he wanted to know. Along with trying to listen, he kept an eye on his father. Mordec's hard countenance soon darkened with anger. "This is known to be true?" he asked ominously.

"It is," said Nucator. The others nodded.

"A foul business. A most foul business, without a doubt. And yes, my son may know. Better he should have some notion of what manner of men the occupiers are." Mordec's eyes speared Conan. "You remember the Aquilonian captain here warned us to ward our young women when his commander, Count Stercus, came to Duthil?"