Conan the Rebel by Poul Anderson

in his size. There was a pool in which he could swim as well as bathe, with fresh water pumped in from outside each time he had drained it. After three days of such conditions he suffered from no more than rage at being confined, longing for daylight, and puzzlement tinged with fear of what this might portend.
    'Rejoice,' said the chief of the squad in accented Shemitish. 'In his kindness, lord Tothapis has decided you should not languish alone, but may have company during certain hours. Come with us.'
    Bewildered, heart thumping beneath his tunic, Conan obeyed. The men conducted him down a corridor whose doors resembled those of his place and doubtless concealed similar appointments. At the end, it gave on a large chamber, richly carpeted, well furnished, full of light and soft air from open windows. Whitewashed walls bore murals of flowers and wildfowl. A large carafe of wine and four crystal goblets stood on a table. Three people, already present, stared as Conan entered.
    'We will bring you back at dinnertime,' the Stygian officer said. He and his men withdrew. Conan heard a heavy bolt slam down. The chamber had but one single exit. Driven by his wish to be free, he went to the nearest window and glanced out. As he had expected, it offered no egress, just a sheer wall going down to the same paved courtyard that his balcony overhung, impossible to climb or jump without smashing himself.
    He turned to confront the others. 'My name is Conan, and I hail from the far northern country of the Cimmerians,' he declared in Shemitish. 'Are you captives here, too?'
    'I – I believe so,' replied the youth. 'I certainly am. We have none of us met before. I am Falco, a son of the Baron of Kirjahan in Ophir.'
    Conan nodded. The fellow's nationality was plain to see, despite Stygian garb. Perhaps eighteen years old, he stood slim, a trifle on the short side, but lithely muscled. Fair-skinned, hazel-eyed, hair ruddy brown, his regular features showed him to be of the western Ophirites, civilized, courdy-mannered, often commercial-minded, rather than of the hard-riding plainsmen in the east of that kingdom; but he would surely have been taught to keep a saddle, shoot a bow, and wield a blade as well as to read, write, and make music for ladies. Conan recalled maps he had seen. Ophir lay north of Shem, and Kirjahan was not far from the Aquilonian border.
    Falco bowed to the woman in the group. 'And may we ask your name, my lady?' he said.
    Conan regarded her with pleasure. She was very tall for her sex, slender but well proportioned and firm-fleshed in a gauzy gown, her hair and eyes dark but her complexion more nearly golden, her countenance moulded out of those of several races but finely formed. The look she gave him was bold, in no way coquettish. She J started to address them in a language he did not recognize, except that it seemed to belong to the Hyborian family. Seeing that nobody understood, she changed over to Stygian.
    'She is Daris of Taia,' Falco interpreted. 'Her father Ausar has taken the lead in the revolt of that province against King Mentuphera.' He hesitated, concern upon his boyish visage. 'If her father yet lives.'
    Conan frowned. After his experience he could not help feeling wary of anyone called Taian. 'How came she here?' he asked.
    Falco inquired, got a reply, and explained briefly what had happened. Conan's suspicions fell from him. 'Why, good for you, girl!' he said. 'Your heart is sister to Bêlit's.'
    The fourth person present uttered a broken cry. The attention of the rest swung to him. A big, sturdily built Shemite, he had stood ' apart, silent, shoulders stooped, grief etched in every line of his cruelly maltreated face. 'Who are you?' Conan inquired.
    'I am no one, nothing,' was the mumbled response. Abruptly the downcast eyes lifted to meet the Cimmerian's. 'But did I hear you speak: a name?'
    'Yes. Bêlit's, the corsair queen of the Black Coast -'
    Conan got no chance to finish. The stranger stumbled