One
The Stowaway
Messantia's most infamous tavern, the Stowaway, lay unmarked at the city's outskirts amid a cluster of slovenly buildings. It marked the end of Merchant Street, which originated at the busiest harbor in Argos's capital city. At the harbor, the street was wide, paved with stone, and well-maintained by King Milo's taxes. But as it twisted, branched, and wound its way through the largest port city in any of the Hyborian Kingdoms, it dwindled to a narrow strip of dirt that was paved with naught but rubbish and traversed only by a dense population of rats. Here the locals named it Pirate's Lane, for those who trod upon it were less accustomed to hard-packed dirt than to wood-planked deck. They were seafaring rogues: stocky, tawny-haired Argosseans; lean, sallow-skinned Zingarans; and swarthy, black-bearded Shemites.
They clustered in the Stowaway's dim, wood-furnished confines like barnacles on a hull. Six of Messantia's boldest smugglers feasted on haunches of flame-roasted mutton, washing down their greasy repast with draughts of thick ale. A swarthy Kothian cutthroat watched them with a predatory gaze, stroking his thick black mustache. A sweaty Shemite captain locked wrist and hand in an arm-wrestling match with a rival Zingaran, while a scarred, tattooed Nemedian collected wagers from the contestants' crewmen.
Of course, drinking and gambling were but two of many vices in which the Stowaway's motley patrons engaged.
Clad in the scantiest wisps of garments, wenches from a dozen lands moved among the throng, their bared hips swaying provocatively as they served ale, wine, and platters of steaming meat to patrons. Their voluptuous bodies drew many stares, though for the most part, their faces had a hard-eyed, jaded look. The tavern attracted the sort of men who preferred coarse, lusty harlots. Of course, no self-respecting doxy would go near a place with the Stowaway's reputation.
One would have to visit a dungeon to find a more ruffianly lot gathered in one room. Even so, the crowd seemed at ease--many of the rogues were bitter rivals at sea, but the Stowaway was neutral ground. Here they rollicked: drinking, wagering, and wenching away their plunder.
The crowd tonight was thicker than usual, for the crew of the notorious Hawk had put ashore after months at sea. Her captain was a pirate whose very name was cursed and feared by every seafaring merchant in the region. At the Stowaway's largest table sat this notorious rogue, Conan: a blackmaned, blue-eyed giant from the frozen hills of Cimmeria. His crew--a motley band of villainous scum--surrounded him, laughing lustily as the Hawk's first mate finished a bawdy lyric.
"By Crom, Rulvio, the most jaded strumpet would blush at your jests!" Conan guffawed, thumping the bearlike Argossean on the back.
Frothy Argossean ale slopped from Rulvio's leathern jack onto his hairy chest and drenched his baggy silken breeks. The first mate took no notice of the spill, quaffing the rest of his ale in a single gulp and belching thunderously.
Conan yelled for more ale. He leaned backward and playfully swatted the shapely backside of Rubinia, the Stowaway's comeliest serving-wench. She giggled and strolled away, her swaying hips and scanty shift turning the head of every man nearby. Conan's eyes drank in the sight wolfishly, and he gulped down another measure of strong ale.
"So, Captain," Rulvio rumbled, "say ye that we've enough loot for a fortnight of wenching in Messantia?"
"Aye," Conan affirmed. "The Hawk needs an overhaul anyway, and this lot of drunkards--" he nodded toward his sodden crewmen "--is ill-suited for any task save sailing or looting. And after tonight's windfall, the lads earned a good debauch."
"I've a mind to float in a sea of ale myself," chuckled Rulvio.
"Let's first discuss an urgent matter--privately," added Conan. He nodded toward the smoky shadows of the opposite end of the Stowaway.
Many of the Hawk's crew had begun their debauch in earnest. One band diced, a few others had wenches in their laps, while many drifted to join other patrons, hear news, and swap lies about their adventures. Conan and Rulvio looked on, amused, and wandered to one of many dimly lit nooks in the Stowaway's squalid interior.
"'Bel favors the thief what squanders his booty,' eh?" quoth Rulvio. His broad grin revealed teeth as crooked as his nose, which had been broken more times than he could remember.
Conan raised a bushy eyebrow. "Were it so, Bel would hold no sea-dog in higher esteem than you, Rulvio." The Cimmerian's blue eyes burned sharply, as if his wits had not yet been clouded by the Argossean ale. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to the golden hoop that dangled from Rulvio's sunburned ear. "We have been through some scrapes together, my friend. You shoved me to the deck and took an arrow in the leg for me, years ago when that Zingaran galley nearly ran us down. For that, I am in your debt."
Rulvio shrugged. "Had ye not slain a score of those Zingaran swine when they boarded us, our whole blasted crew would be rotting in Dagon's belly. Hah! There be no debt between us, Conan. I served under Borus before ye, and Gonzago before him, and neither could match ye as captain."
Conan accepted the compliment in silence. He demanded much from his men, but he rewarded them with fair shares of every haul. Still, a blood debt could not be settled so readily. And for what he had in mind, he would need the help of a stout fighter like Rulvio.
The Argossean's brow furrowed. "This ale has addled my wits, Conan, else I'd have seen it sooner. Why put ashore here, in a city with laws, and not in the Barachan Isles, where they welcome dogs like us?"
"Swear by Bel that you will not repeat what I am about to tell you."
Rulvio did so, his bloodshot eyes meeting Conan's somber gaze.
The Cimmerian withdrew a folded piece of parchment from his vest of supple, finely tooled leather. He laid it upon the table, thumping it with his scarred fist. "I found this in a cloak, aboard that little Zingaran ship we overtook today."
"Well, at least ye found something that the lads won't squander tonight," Rulvio said heavily. "Bel knows we'll guzzle the profit from that excursion before the sun rises. I'll not grumble about the cargo, but I would that we had caught the swine who made off in the skiff with the strongbox."
Conan waved aside the first mate's complaints. "We could not give chase--the cursed wind deserted us, and that fool Voralo gave chase in our boat and got himself and three lads killed in the process!" The memory stoked a fire of anger in Conan's eyes; the Hawk had eventually caught up with Voralo's drifting boat and its dead occupants, but their slayer had escaped, presumably to the haven afforded by nearby Messantia. Each man's throat had been slit deeply, vertically, their wounds unlike any that even Conan had seen. He chewed his lip for a span, then stared across the table at Rulvio. "But we may yet gain from that raid. Have you heard legends of a City of Brass?"
Rulvio snorted. "Aye. Though I be not fool enough to believe them. There's a knave in every blasted town from here to Turan who hawks maps to the Brass City. I doubt not that ye found such a piece of fakery--they be as common as lice in a beggar's beard!"
"So they are," Conan agreed, scowling. As a naïve youth, he had wasted many a coin on false treasure maps. "But this one is different; never have I seen its like. In my wanderings, I have learned a smattering of ancient rune-lore. The map bears inscriptions…" He paused as Rubinia arrived, a huge clay pitcher nestled in the crook of her elbow.
Rulvio's eyes had shifted away from Conan's. They lingered on Rubinia's full bosom, which strained at the thin fabric of her low-cut tunic as she bent over their table to refill their ale-jacks. When she finished, the Argossean's gaze followed her. "Forget this mad quest for the blasted Brass City, Captain. Why not spend the evenings carousing with us and pass the nights abed with that doxy until the Hawk is ready to sail again? We be wolves of the sea, and on the sea we hunt--not in the dusty bowels of some landlocked ruin."
"You speak wisely, as ever, Rulvio. Assuredly the wench will take my mind off this map for a time. But I deem it worthwhile to spend a week or two on a foray into the desert of Shem, where these writings place the city. Accompany me if you wish. I shall go at it alone if you prefer to stay here--perhaps it were better if you did, or the lads may get into too much trouble."
"Our lads?" Rulvio winked. "Why, such refined fellows as they will of course obey every local law and observe every blasted custom." He pointed toward a group of a half-score of loud, inebriated knaves who had stopped throwing dice and started throwing punches. "Fenzini, you slack-wit!" Rulvio cursed. "Use the weighted dice in games with honest folk--not with your blasted mates!" He turned to Conan, grunting disapprovingly. "I must needs break this up before someone dents a skull." He cracked his knuckles as he rose from the wooden crate that served as his seat and staggered into the brawl.
Conan shook his head, though he was not too surprised by Rulvio's lack of enthusiasm for a venture into Shem. Still, the Cimmerian was determined to see if the map might open a vault of treasure that for centuries had eluded fortune-hunters. Many times he had single-handedly seized hoards of wealth, the very existence of which had been scoffed at by others. And he knew well that a few nights of revelry would end in restlessness. After months at sea, he welcomed a journey that would take him through Shem's lush wine country. If he struck it rich there, he could turn the Hawk over to Rulvio and live like a king, forgoing the freebooter's life-style of feasting one week and fasting for the next three or four.
He tucked the parchment into his vest and upended his ale-jack, gulping until he emptied it. Grinning, he rose and sauntered over to the mass of punching, k...
