Conan the Barbarian by L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter

asked Conan. “They speak of magic—or so it seems to me.”
    The Shemite shot a searching glance at the young Cimmerian. Although avarice gleamed in his beady eyes, his answer came with studied indifference.
    “The thing is ancient and much worn. Not too much value there,” he said. “As for magic, who knows which things have magic, unless such properties can be shown? I’ll give you two crowns five, and that’s a generous offer.” He turned his back and started to dust a shelf of merchandise.
    “Done,” said Conan quickly, ignoring the light tug on his sleeve.
    The man swung back and dropped the small gold pieces into Conan’s outstretched palm. As the friends walked away, Subotai exploded.
    “Fool! Ninny! Any idiot knows you never take the first offer. I could have got you twice or thrice the price with a little haggling.”
    Conan scowled at his companion. “Why didn’t you say so at the time?”
    “You did not say what you proposed to do, and one does not jostle the archer’s arm when he has drawn the shaft.”
    The turbulence of Conan’s anger quickly faded to a sigh. He said, “I fear me you have the right of it. I have never learned the customs of the marketplace. The next time we must chaffer, I’ll give the task to you.”
    “Admission of ignorance,” said the Hyrkanian, “is the beginning of wisdom, as some Khitanian philosopher liked to say. Don’t look so downcast; we have enough for a fortnight’s worth of food. Before that, something will turn up, I’m sure.”
    Conan grunted. “And if it does not, what shall we do then? I must find the bearer of that emblem and him who slew my parents—my Cimmerian honour demands it!”
    “To the Nine Hells with your snaky emblem and your Cimmerian vengeance!” Subotai nodded toward the dark tower, which, silent and forbidding, could be seen from every street and alley. “I think I have a plan to make us rich as lords....”
    “You have more plans than an ass has feet,” growled Conan. “What is this plan of yours?”
    “If this is indeed the Tower of the Black Serpent, as our informant named it, then I have heard of it betimes... in a professional way, you understand, from my brother
    thieves.”
    “Heard what?”
    “That it contains fabulous riches,” whispered Subotai, licking dry lips. “Thither comes the tribute of the believers from every Set cult in the kingdom—gold, drugs, jewels, wine, and women! But in particular come jewels. The Set worshippers prize polished precious stones, deep and unwinking like the eyes of the serpents they adore.”
    Conan grunted. He had never in his life stolen anything more than a piece of fruit from the tree of a Cimmerian neighbour, unless one counted the looting of the dead Hyrkanian and the vanished witch’s cave. And until he had met Subotai, he had despised all thieves. Cimmerian villagers did not steal from one another, although they freely raided the lands of clans with whom they were at feud.
    Now, in a city, with his money low and his chances of employment poor until he could better master the language of Zamora, he knew he must find some means of satisfying his leonine appetite. Seeing his hesitation, Subotai continued.
    “They say the tower harbours the greatest jewel of all. The ‘Eye of the Serpent,’ ’tis called—a gem of such rarity that we could buy a dukedom with it. It’s said to have mystic powers, too; but I heed not such rumours. Its value in hard money is enough.”
    Conan continued sceptical. “Such a treasure, without doubt, is guarded well.”
    “Aye,” Subotai nodded wisely, “but not by men! ’Tis said by serpents, which roam freely about the tower and its winding ways, as dogs do wander about the yurts of my people.”
    “So?” said Conan.
    Subotai spread greasy palms. “You look for snakes; I look for treasure. Mayhap we could find them both in yonder spire....”
    In the end it was agreed to break into the tower, although the Cimmerian little liked the