answering. “I have not found priests much different from other men. All work for their own wealth, power, and glory, like the rest of us, however much they mask ambition by pious chatter.”
“Oh, sir!” ejaculated the boy. “Let not such impious sentiments come to the ears of the priests of Zath! True, they might excuse you as naught but an ignorant foreigner; but you should never speak lightly of the god and his ministers in holy Yezud—not, that is, unless you would fain serve as fodder for the spider-god.”
“Is that the fate of malefactors here?” queried Conan.
“Aye, sir. It is our regular form of execution.”
“How is it done?”
“The acolytes throw the criminal into the tunnels beneath the temple. Then, when immortal Zath takes on his mortal form at night, he descends thither to devour the miscreant.”
“Who has seen Zath thus scuttling about?”
“Only the priests, sir.”
“Has any plain citizen of Yezud witnessed this miracle?”
“N-no, sir. None dares enter the haunts of the spider-god, save the highest ranks of the priesthood. I did hear a tale last year, that one impious wight secretly entered the tunnels, hoping to find valuables to steal. You know what they say about Zamorian thieves?”
“That they are the most skillful in the world and the most faithful to their trust. What befell this venturesome fellow? Did Zath devour him?”
“Nay; he escaped.” The boy shuddered. “But he came out raving mad and died a few days thereafter.”
“Hm. No place to tarry for one’s health, meseems. Tell me, Lar, of what substance are the eyes of Zath composed?”
“Why, of the same stuff as yours and mine, I suppose; save that when Zath returns to his pedestal and settles into his stony form, his eyes must become some sort of bluish mineral. More I cannot tell.”
Conan walked in silence to Lar’s home for the midday meal, his nimble mind already scheming. The eyes of Zath were certainly gems of some kind. If he could manage to steal some of them, he would command enough wealth for a lifetime. Usually Conan trod lightly in the presence of strange gods; but he found it difficult to attribute divinity to any spider, however formidable. Whether or not the statue possessed the power to transform itself into a sentient being, Conan could not bring himself to accord it godhood. He felt sure that the priests of Zath were swindling the credulous Zamorians, and that it would be simple justice for him to deprive them of part of their ill-gotten gains.
A fter the evening repast, Conan, weary of the sobriety of Yezud, strapped on his sword and strode down the rocky ramp to Bartakes’s Inn in Khesron,. He was pleased to find few other patrons in the common room, for he wished to be alone to think.
Conan carried his jack of wine from the innkeeper’s counter and settled down in a corner. He regretted having spoken so cynically to young Lar about gods and priests because, he realized, his incautious words had given the pious and impressionable boy a hold upon him. If they should ever quarrel, or if Lar did something stupid and Conan cuffed him for it, Lar might run to the priests with an exaggerated tale of the blacksmith’s heresies. Of the many hard lessons he was being forced to learn in order to make his way in civilized lands, Conan found guarding his tongue and weighing his words the hardest.
The Cimmerian’s dour musings were interrupted by the crackle of sharp words across the dim-lit room, where a man and a woman sat with an empty bottle of wine between them. The woman, clad in a tight dress of red and white checked cotton, cut to display a generous expanse of bosom, Conan recognized as Bartakes’s daughter Mandana. The man—Conan tensed, for he should have recognized the bristling red mustache immediately upon entering the common room—was Captain Catigern. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Conan had overlooked the mercenary officer.
Catigern had obviously drunk more than he
“Oh, sir!” ejaculated the boy. “Let not such impious sentiments come to the ears of the priests of Zath! True, they might excuse you as naught but an ignorant foreigner; but you should never speak lightly of the god and his ministers in holy Yezud—not, that is, unless you would fain serve as fodder for the spider-god.”
“Is that the fate of malefactors here?” queried Conan.
“Aye, sir. It is our regular form of execution.”
“How is it done?”
“The acolytes throw the criminal into the tunnels beneath the temple. Then, when immortal Zath takes on his mortal form at night, he descends thither to devour the miscreant.”
“Who has seen Zath thus scuttling about?”
“Only the priests, sir.”
“Has any plain citizen of Yezud witnessed this miracle?”
“N-no, sir. None dares enter the haunts of the spider-god, save the highest ranks of the priesthood. I did hear a tale last year, that one impious wight secretly entered the tunnels, hoping to find valuables to steal. You know what they say about Zamorian thieves?”
“That they are the most skillful in the world and the most faithful to their trust. What befell this venturesome fellow? Did Zath devour him?”
“Nay; he escaped.” The boy shuddered. “But he came out raving mad and died a few days thereafter.”
“Hm. No place to tarry for one’s health, meseems. Tell me, Lar, of what substance are the eyes of Zath composed?”
“Why, of the same stuff as yours and mine, I suppose; save that when Zath returns to his pedestal and settles into his stony form, his eyes must become some sort of bluish mineral. More I cannot tell.”
Conan walked in silence to Lar’s home for the midday meal, his nimble mind already scheming. The eyes of Zath were certainly gems of some kind. If he could manage to steal some of them, he would command enough wealth for a lifetime. Usually Conan trod lightly in the presence of strange gods; but he found it difficult to attribute divinity to any spider, however formidable. Whether or not the statue possessed the power to transform itself into a sentient being, Conan could not bring himself to accord it godhood. He felt sure that the priests of Zath were swindling the credulous Zamorians, and that it would be simple justice for him to deprive them of part of their ill-gotten gains.
A fter the evening repast, Conan, weary of the sobriety of Yezud, strapped on his sword and strode down the rocky ramp to Bartakes’s Inn in Khesron,. He was pleased to find few other patrons in the common room, for he wished to be alone to think.
Conan carried his jack of wine from the innkeeper’s counter and settled down in a corner. He regretted having spoken so cynically to young Lar about gods and priests because, he realized, his incautious words had given the pious and impressionable boy a hold upon him. If they should ever quarrel, or if Lar did something stupid and Conan cuffed him for it, Lar might run to the priests with an exaggerated tale of the blacksmith’s heresies. Of the many hard lessons he was being forced to learn in order to make his way in civilized lands, Conan found guarding his tongue and weighing his words the hardest.
The Cimmerian’s dour musings were interrupted by the crackle of sharp words across the dim-lit room, where a man and a woman sat with an empty bottle of wine between them. The woman, clad in a tight dress of red and white checked cotton, cut to display a generous expanse of bosom, Conan recognized as Bartakes’s daughter Mandana. The man—Conan tensed, for he should have recognized the bristling red mustache immediately upon entering the common room—was Captain Catigern. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Conan had overlooked the mercenary officer.
Catigern had obviously drunk more than he
Similar Books
