"Robert Jordan - Conan 02 - The Invincible" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

Conan felt the blade bite bone; beyond the man choking on his own blood he saw the second Iranistani,
teeth bared in a rictus, rushing at him with scimitar extended. He threw his shoulder into the pit of the
dying man's stomach, straightening to lift the Iranistani and hurl him at his companion. The sword tearing
free of the body held it up enough that it fell sprawling at the other man's racing feet. The second
Iranistani leaped over his friend, curved blade swinging. Conan's slash beat the scimitar aside, and his
backhand return ripped out the man's throat. Blood spilling down his dirty chest, the Iranistani tottered
back with disbelieving eyes, pulling an empty table over when he fell.

Conan caught sight of Semiramis heading up the stair, one of the Kothian's big hands caressing a nearly
bare buttock possessively as he followed. With a grimace, he wiped his blade clean on the baggy
pantaloons of one of the dead men. Be damned to her, if her eyes had not shown her she already had a
better man. He turned back to the table of the red-haired woman. It was empty. He cursed again, under
his breath.

"This one's dead, too," Abuletes muttered. The fat tavern keeper knelt beside the first man Conan had
confronted, his hands like plump spiders as they slipped the silver chain from about the dead man's neck.
"You broke his neck. Hanuman's stones, Conan. That's three free-spenders you've done me out of. I've
half a mind to tell you to take your custom elsewhere."

"Now you have it all," Conan said sourly, "and you don't have to give them any of your watered wine.
But you can bring me a pitcher of your best. Kyroian. On them."

He settled at a table against the wall, thinking rough thoughts about women. At least the red-haired
wench could have shown a little gratitude. He had saved her from a mauling, if nothing worse. And
Semiramis .... Abuletes plonked down a rough earthenware pitcher in front of him and stretched out a
grubby hand. Conan looked significantly at the last of the dead Iranistanis being hauled away by the two
scruffy men who earned coppers fetching and carrying around the tavern. He had seen all three of the
dead men's purses disappear beneath Abuletes' filthy apron. After a moment the tavern keeper shuffled
his feet, wiped his fat hands on his apron, and left. Conan settled down to serious drinking.



Chapter III
The tables that had emptied during the fight refilled quickly. No one had given more than a passing
glance to the dead men as they were removed; the level of shouted laughter and raucous talk had never
decreased. The half-naked courtesan briefly considered the breadth of Conan's shoulder with lust-filled
eyes, then passed on from his grim face.

His troubles, Conan decided by the time he had emptied four wooden tankards of the sweet wine, would
not be settled by the amounts he normally stole. Had he been a man of means the auburn-haired baggage
would not have gone. Semiramis would not have thought it so important to ply her trade. But golden
goblets lifted from the halls of fat merchants, pearl necklaces spirited from the very bedsides of sleek
noblewomen, brought less than a tenth their value from the fences in the Desert. And the art of saving
was not in him. Gambling and drinking took what remained from wenching. The only way to sufficient
gain was one grand theft. But what? And from where?
There was the palace, of course. King Tiridates had treasures beyond counting. The king was a
drunkard-he had been so since the days when the evil mage Yara was the true power in Zamora-but in
justice he should willingly part with some portion of his wealth for the man who had brought Yara and the
Elephant Tower down. If he knew that man's deeds, and if he were of a mind to part with anything to a
barbarian thief. But the debt was owed, to Conan's mind, and collecting on it-albeit without Tiridates'