Howard, Robert E - Conan - Rogues In The House

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ROGUES IN THE HOUSE

Robert E. Howard

At a court festival, Nabonidus, the Red Priest, who was the real ruler of

the city, touched Murilo, the young aristocrat, courteously on the arm. Murilo

turned to meet the priest's enigmatic gaze, and to wonder at the hidden

meaning therein. No words passed between them, but Nabonidus bowed and

handed Murilo a small gold cask. The young nobleman, knowing that

Nabonidus did nothing without reason, excused himself at the first

opportunity and returned hastily to his chamber. There he opened the cask

and found within a human ear, which he recognized by a peculiar scar upon

it. He broke into a profuse sweat and was no longer in doubt about the

meaning in the Red Priest's glance.

But Murilo, for all his scented black curls and foppish apparel was no

weakling to bend his neck to the knife without a struggle. He did not know

whether Nabonidus was merely playing with him or giving him a chance to

go into voluntary exile, but the fact that he was still alive and at liberty

proved that he was to be given at least a few hours, probably for meditation.

However, he needed no meditation for decision; what he needed was a tool.

And Fate furnished that tool, working among the dives and brothels of the

squalid quarters even while the young nobleman shivered and pondered in

the part of the city occupied by the purple-towered marble and ivory palaces

of the aristocracy.

There was a priest of Anu whose temple, rising at the fringe of the slum

district, was the scene of more than devotions. The priest was fat and full-

fed, and he was at once a fence for stolen articles and a spy for the police.

He worked a thriving trade both ways, because the district on which he

bordered was the Maze, a tangle of muddy, winding alleys and sordid dens,

frequented by the bolder thieves in the kingdom. Daring above all were a

Gunderman deserter from the mercenaries and a barbaric Cimmerian.

Because of the priest of Anu, the Gunderman was taken and hanged in the

market square. But the Cimmerian fled, and learning in devious ways of the

priest's treachery, he entered the temple of Anu by night and cut off the

priest's head. There followed a great turmoil in the city, but the search for

the killer proved fruitless until a woman betrayed him to the authorities and

led a captain of the guard and his squad to the hidden chamber where the

barbarian lay drunk.

Waking to stupefied but ferocious life when they siezed him, he

disemboweled the captain, burst through his assailants, and would have

escaped but for the liquor that still clouded his senses. Bewildered and half

blinded, he missed the open door in his headlong flight and dashed his head

against the stone wall so terrifically that he knocked himself senseless. When

he came to, he was in the strongest dungeon in the city, shackled to the wall

with chains not even his barbaric thews could break.

To this cell came Murilo, masked and wrapped in a wide black cloak. The

Cimmerian surveyed him with interest, thinking him the executioner sent to

dispatch him. Murilo set him at rights and regarded him with no less interest.

Even in the dim light of the dungeon, with his limbs loaded with chains, the

primitive power of the man was evident. His mighty body and thick-muscled

limbs combined the strength of a grizzly with the quickness of a panther.

Under his tangled black mane his blue eyes blazed with unquenchable

savagery.

"Would you like to live?" asked Murilo. The barbarian grunted, new

interest glinting in his eyes.

"If I arrange for your escape, will you do a favor for me?" the aristocrat

asked.

The Cimmerian did not speak, but the intentness of his gaze answered for

him.

"I want you to kill a man for me."

"Who?"

Murilo's voice sank to a whisper. "Nabonidus, the king's priest!"

The Cimmerian showed no sign of surprise or perturbation. He had none

of the fear or reverence for authority that civilization instills in men. King or

beggar, it was all one to him. Nor did he ask why Murilo had come to him,

when the quarters were full of cutthroats outside prisons.

"When am I to escape?" he demanded.

"Within the hour. There is but one guard in this part of the dungeon at

night. He can be bribed; he _has_ been bribed. See, here are the keys to

your chains. I'll remove them and, after I have been gone an hour, the

guard, Athicus, will unlock the door to your cell. You will bind him with strips

torn from your tunic; so when he is found, the authorities will think you were

rescued from the outside and will not suspect him. Go at once to the house

of the Red Priest and kill him. Then go to the Rats' Den, where a man will

meet you and give you a pouch of gold and a horse. With those you can

escape from the city and flee the country."

"Take off these cursed chains now," demanded the Cimmerian. "And have

the guard bring me food. By Crom, I have lived on moldy bread and water

for a whole day, and I am nigh to famishing."

"It shall be done; but remember -- you are not to escape until I have had

time to reach my home."

Freed of his chains, the barbarian stood up and stretched his heavy arms,

enormous in the gloom of the dungeon. Murilo again felt that if any man in

the world could accomplish the task he had set, this Cimmerian could. With a

few repeated instructions he left the prison, first directing Athicus to take a

platter of beef and ale in to the prisoner. He knew he could trust the guard,

not only because of the money he had paid, but also because of certain

information he possessed regarding the man.

When he returned to his chamber, Murilo was in full control of his fears.

Nabonidus would strike through the king -- of that he was certain. And since

the royal guardsmen were not knocking at his door, it was certain that the

priest had said nothing to the king, so far. Tomorrow he would speak,

beyond a doubt -- if he lived to see tomorrow.

Murilo believed the Cimmerian would keep faith with him. Whether the

man would be able to carry out his purpose remained to be seen. Men had

attempted to assassinate the Red Priest before, and they had died in hideous

and nameless ways. But they had been products of the cities of men, lacking

the wolfish instincts of the barbarian. The instant that Murilo, turning the

gold cask with its severed ear in his hands, had learned through his secret

channels that the Cimmerian had been captured, he had seen a solution of

his problem.

In his chamber again, he drank a toast to the man, whose name was

Conan, and to his success that night. And while he was drinking, one of his

spies brought him the news that Athicus had been arrested and thrown into

prison. The Cimmerian had not escaped.

Murilo felt his blood turn to ice again. He could see in this twist of fate

only the sinister hand of Nabonidus, and an eery obsession began to grow on

him that the Red Priest was more than human -- a sorcerer who read the

minds of his victims and pulled strings on which they danced like puppets.

With despair came desperation. Girding a sword beneath his black cloak, he

left his house by a hidden way and hurried through the deserted streets. It

was just at midnight when he came to the house of Nabonidus, looming

blackly among the walled gardens that separated it from the surrounding

estates.

The wall was high but not impossible to negotiate. Nabonidus did not put

his trust in mere barriers of stone. It was what was inside the wall that was

to be feared. What these things were Murilo did not know precisely. He knew

there was at least a huge savage dog that roamed the gardens and had on

occasion torn an intruder to pieces as a hound rends a rabbit. What else

there might be he did not care to conjecture. Men who had been allowed to

enter the house on brief, legitimate business, reported that Nabonidus dwelt

among rich furnishings, yet simply, attended by a surprisingly small number

of servants. Indeed, they mentioned only one as having been visible -- a tall,

silent man called Joka. Some one else, presumably a slave, had been heard

moving about in the recesses of the house, but this person no one had ever

seen. The greatest mystery of the mysterious house was Nabonidus himself,

whose power of intrigue and grasp on international politics had made him

the strongest man in the kingdom. People, chancellor and king moved

puppetlike on the strings he worked.

Murilo scaled the wall and dropped down into the gardens, which were

expanses of shadow, darkened by clumps of shrubbery and waving foliage.

No light shone in the windows of the house, which loomed so blackly among

the trees. The young nobleman stole stealthily yet swiftly through the

shrubs. Momentarily he expected to hear the baying of the great dog and to

see its giant body hurtle through the shadows. He doubted the effectiveness

of his sword against such an attack, but he did not hesitate. As well die

beneath the fangs of a beast as of the headsman.

He stumbled over something bulky and yielding. Bending close in the dim

starlight, he made out a limp shape on the ground. It was the dog that

guarded the gardens, and it was dead. Its neck ws broken and it bore what

seemed to be the marks of great fangs. Murilo felt that no human being had

done this. The beast had met a monster more savage than itself. Murilo

glared nervously at the cryptic masses of bush and shrub; then with a shrug

of his shoulders, he approached the silent house.

The first door he tried proved to be unlocked. He entered warily, sword in

hand, and found himself in a long, shadowy hallway dimly illuminated by a

light that gleamed through the hangings at the other end. Complete silence

hung over the whole house. Murilo glided along the hall and halted to peer

through the hangings. He looked into a lighted room, over the windows of

which velvet curtains were drawn so closely as to allow no beam to shine

through. The room was empty, in so far as human life was concerned, but it

had a grisly occupant, nevertheless. in the midst of a wreckage of furniture

and torn hangings that told of a fearful struggle, lay the body of a man. The

form lay on its belly, but the head was twisted about so that the chin rested

behind a shoulder. The features, contorted into an awful grin, seemed to leer

at the horrified nobleman.

For the first time that night, Murilo's resolution wavered. He cast an

uncertain glance back the way he had come. Then the memory of the

headsman's block and axe steeled him, and he crossed the room, swerving

to avoid the grinning horror sprawled in its midst. Though he had never seen

the man before, he knew from former descriptions that it was Joka,

Nabonidus' saturnine servant.

He peered through a curtained door into a broad circular chamber,

banded by a gallery half-way between the polished floor and the lofty ceiling.

This chamber was furnished as if for a king. In the midst of it stood an

ornate mahogany table, loaded with vessels of wine and rich viands. And

Murilo stiffened. In a great chair whose broad back was toward him, he saw

a figure whose habilments were familiar. He glimpsed an arm in a red sleeve

resting on the arm of the chair; the head, clad in the familiar scarlet hood of

the gown, was bent forward as if in meditation. Just so had Murilo seen

Nabonidus sit a hundred times in the royal court.

Cursing the pounding of his own heart, the young nobleman stole across

the chamber, sword extended, his whole frame poised for the thrust. His

prey did not move, nor seem to hear his cautious advance. Was the Red

Priest asleep, or was it a corpse which slumped in that great chair? The

length of a single stride separated Murilo from his enemy, when suddenly the

man in the chair rose and faced him.

The blood went suddenly from Murilo's features. His sword fell from his

fingers and rang on the polished floor. A terrible cry broke from his livid lips;

it was followed by the thud of a falling body. Then once more silence reigned

over the house of the Red Priest.

Shortly after Murilo left the dungeon where Conan the Cimmerian was

confined, Athicus brought the prisoner a platter of food which included,

among other things, a huge joint of beef and a tankard of ale. Conan fell to

voraciously, and Athicus made a final round of the cells, to see that all was in

order, and that none should witness the pretended prison break. It was while

he was so occupied that a squad of guardsmen marched into the prison and

placed him under arrest. Murilo had been mistaken when he assumed this

arrest denoted discovery of Conan's planned escape. It was another matter;

Athicus had become careless in his dealings with the underworld, and one of

his past sins had caught up with him.

Another jailer took his place, a stolid, dependable creature whom no

amount of bribery could have shaken from his duty. He was unimaginative,

but he had an exalted idea of the importance of his job.

After Athicus had been marched away to be formally arraigned before a

magistrate, this jailer made the rounds of the cell as a matter of routine. As

he passed that of Conan, his sense of propriety was shocked and outraged to

see the prisoner free of his chains and in the act of gnawing the last shreds

of meat from a huge beefbone. The jailer was so upset that he made the

mistake of entering the cell alone, without calling guards from the other

parts of the prison. It was his first mistake in the line of duty, and his last.

Conan brained him with the beef bone, took his poniard and his keys, and

made a leisurely departure. As Murilo had said, only one guard was on duty

there at night. The Cimmerian passed himself outside the walls by means of

the keys he had taken and presently emerged into the outer air, as free as if

Murilo's plan had been successful.

In the shadows of the prison walls, Conan paused to decide his next

course of action. It occurred to him that since he had escaped through his

own actions, he owed nothing to Murilo; yet it had been the young nobleman

who had removed his chains and had the food sent to him, without either of

which his escape would have been impossible. Conan decided that he was

indebted to Murilo and, since he was a man who discharged his obligations

eventually, he determined to carry out his promise to the young aristocrat.

But first he had some business of his own to attend to.

He discarded his ragged tunic and moved off through the night naked but

for a loincloth. As he went he fingered the poniard he had captured -- a

murderous weapon with a broad, double-edged blade nineteen inches long.

He slunk along alleys and shadowed plazas until he came to the district

which was his destination -- the Maze. Along its labyrinthian ways he went

with the certainty of familiarity. It was indeed a maze of black alleys and

enclosed courts and devious ways; of furtive sounds, and stenches. There

was no paving on the streets; mud and filth mingled in an unsavory mess.

Sewers were unknown; refuse was dumped into the alleys to form reeking

heaps and puddles. Unless a man walked with care he was likely to lose his

footing and plunge waist-deep into nauseous pools. Nor was it uncommon to

stumble over a corpse lying with its throat cut or its head knocked in, in the

mud. Honest folk shunned the Maze with good reason.

Conan reached his destination without being seen, just as one he wished

fervently to meet was leaving it. As the Cimmerian slunk into the courtyard

below, the girl who had sold him to the police was taking leave of her new

lover in a chamber one flight up. This young thug, her door closed behind

him, groped his way down a creaking flight of stairs, intent on his own

meditations, which, like those of most of the denizens of the Maze, had to do

with the unlawful acquirement of property. Part-way down the stairs, he

halted suddenly, his hair standing up. A vague bulk crouched in the darkness

before him, a pair of eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunting beast. A beastlike

snarl was the last thing he heard in life, as the monster lurched against him

and a keen blade ripped through his belly. He gave one gasping cry and

slumped down limply on the stairway.

The barbarian loomed above him for an instant, ghoul-like, his eyes

burning in the gloom. He knew the sound was heard, but the people in the

Maze were careful to attend to their own business. A death cry on darkened

stairs was nothing unusual. Later, some one would venture to investigate,

but only after a reasonable lapse of time.

Conan went up the stairs and halted at a door he knew well of old. It was

fastened within, but his blade passed between the door and the jamb and

lifted the bar. He stepped inside, closing the door after him, and faced the

girl who had betrayed him to the police.

The wench was sitting cross-legged in her shift on her unkempt bed. She

turned white and stared at him as if at a ghost. She had heard the cry from

the stairs, and she saw the red stain on the poniard in his hand. But she was

too filled with terror on her own account to waste any time lamenting the

evident fate of her lover. She began to beg for her life, almost incoherent

with terror. Conan did not reply; he merely stood and glared at her with his

burning eyes, testing the edge of his poniard with a callused thumb.

At last he crossed the chamber, while she cowered back against the wall,

sobbing frantic pleas for mercy. Grasping her yellow locks with no gentle

hand, he dragged her off the bed. Thrusting his blade in the sheath, he

tucked his squirming captive under his left arm and strode to the window. As

in most houses of that type, a ledge encircled each story, caused by the

continuance of the window ledges. Conan kicked the window open and

stepped out on that narrow band. If any had been near or awake, they

would have witnessed the bizarre sight of a man moving carefully along the

ledge, carrying a kicking, half-naked wench under his arm. They would have

been no more puzzled than the girl.

Reaching the spot he sought, Conan halted, gripping the wall with his free

hand. Inside the building rose a sudden clamor, showing that the body had

at last been discovered. His captive whimpered and twisted, renewing her

importunities. Conan glanced down into the muck and slime of the alleys

below; he listened briefly to the clamor inside and the pleas of the wench;

then he dropped her with great accuracy into a cesspool. He enjoyed her

kickings and flounderings and the concentrated venom her profanity for a

few seconds, and even allowed himeself a low rumble of laughter. Then he

lifted his head, listened to the growing tumult within the building, and

decided it was time for him to kill Nabonidus.

It was a reverberating clang of metal that roused Murilo. He groaned and

struggled dazedly to a sitting position. About him all was silence and

darkness, and for an instant he was sickened with the fear that he was blind.

Then he remembered what had gone before, and his flesh crawled. By the

sense of touch he found that he was lying on a floor of evenly joined stone

slabs. Further groping discovered a wall of the same material. He rose and

leaned against it, trying in vain to orient himself. That he was in some sort of

a prison seemed certain, but where and how long he was unable to guess.

He remembered dimly a clashing noise and wondered if it had been the iron

door of his dungeon closing on him, or if it betokened the entrance of an

executioner.

At this thought he shuddered profoundly and began to feel his way along

the wall. Momentarily he expected to encounter the limits of his prison, but

after a while he came to the conclusion that he was travelling down a

corridor. He kept to the wall, fearful of pits of other traps, and was presently

aware of something near him in the blackness. He could see nothing, but

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