Conan of Venarium

Mordec strode through the noisy chaos as if it did not exist. Boys and dogs and even chickens made way for him. The cat, unimpressed, yawned again, flipped the tip of its fluffy tail up over its eyes to keep out the sun, and fell asleep. Mordec had not far to go. He ducked his way into the house of Balarg the weaver.

Balarg was busy at the loom. He worked on for a few moments, then nodded to the blacksmith. "Good day," he said, civilly enough. "You look to have somewhat on your mind."

"I do. I do indeed." Mordec had little lightness in him at any time. His nod now was as somber and jerky as if he were made of the iron he worked.

"Say your say, then," Balarg told him. The weaver gestured toward another stool. "And sit, if you care to."

"I'd sooner stand," said Mordec. Shrugging, Balarg got to his feet, too. He was not so thick through the shoulders and chest as the blacksmith, but came closer than any other man in Duthil to matching him in height. By rising, he might as well have warned Mordec he would not suffer himself to be loomed over. Ignoring such subtleties, Mordec bulled ahead: "This has to do with your daughter."

"With Tarla?" Balarg's eyebrows rose in surprise or a good simulation of it. "We've walked this track before, but you look bound and determined to do it again, so go on, by all means."

"She draws that accursed Aquilonian noble the way spilled honey draws flies," said Mordec bluntly. "We'd all be better off if he stopped coming to Duthil, and you know it as well as I do."

Now the weaver's brows came down, though even frowning he lacked Mordec's gloomy Now the weaver’s brows came down, though even frowning he lacked Mordec’s gloomy intensity. Still, his voice had no give in it as he replied, "Tell me just what you mean. You need to be careful about what you say, too. If you claim she has done anything improper with the Aquilonian — anything at all, mind you —then we can step out into the street and settle that directly. You once said our quarrels could wait while the men from the south were in our country, and I thought that fair enough. Still, Mordec, some things cannot be borne."

The blacksmith exhaled angrily. "I do not say she has done anything—not the way you mean. But when that stinking Stercus comes to call on her, she —she smiles at him."

Balarg threw back his head and laughed. "Plain to see you have a son and not a daughter. That is the way of girls — the way of women — and has been for as long as they have had to try to deal with us men."

"Oh, I know a girl's smiles are sweet, and I know the sweetest of smiles need not mean a thing. I am not a fool, Balarg, and you make a mistake if you reckon me one," said Mordec. "But I also know some things you seem to forget. Does the tale of poor Ugaine mean nothing to you?"

"Ugaine was Stercus' plaything, in the town the Aquilonians have built," said Balarg. "Tarla stays here in Duthil, and Stercus has not laid a finger—not so much as a finger —upon her. Do you deny it? Do you, damn your stiff neck?"

"I do not," said Mordec. "But do you deny that even his own officer warned us against Stercus? Do you deny he has given her more attention than is her due? What he has done is no guide to what he will do, or to what he would do. And you will also have heard the stories the Aquilonian soldiers tell, that he was cast forth from their capital, cast forth from their kingdom, for liking young girls too well? He has done these things, Balarg. Given the chance, he will do them again."

"You are the one who speaks Aquilonian, so you would know better than I," said Balarg. Mordec glowered and flushed; the weaver might have accused him of friendship with the invaders. Sensing his advantage, Balarg went on, "Besides, if we listened to everything the soldiers said, we would never have time for anything else. I think your quibbles spring from a different seed, myself."

"What nonsense are you spewing now?" rumbled Mordec irritably.

"Nonsense? I doubt it." Balarg was a clever man, and, like most clever men, pleased with his own cleverness, and with showing it off. "You complain about the Aquilonian because you aim to match Tarla with your own great gowk of a son. I've seen him casting sheep's eyes at her often enough."

Mordec scowled, for at least part of what the weaver said was true. "He'd make a better match for her than any other you'd find in Duthil, and you know it."

"In Duthil? Aye, likely enough." But Balarg spoke as if Duthil were a very small place indeed. "Tarla, though, Tarla might find a match in any of the villages of Cimmeria, and pick and choose from among her suitors."