Conan and the Spider God by Lyon Sprague de Camp

folds.
    Struggling to hide the hatred that welled in his barbarian breast for the man who had tricked and robbed him, Conan forced himself to speak calmly: “I am Nial, a mercenary from the Border Kingdom. Hearing that the temple was hiring soldiers, I have come in hope of finding a post.”
    The turbaned man gently shook his head. “You are too late by a fortnight, my son. Captain Catigern likewise learned of the opportunity and, there being no wars at present in Brythunia, brought his Free Company hither.”
    “So I’ve been told. Nonetheless, sir, I need employment; for my money is nearly gone, and I must find more ere leaving to seek a post in other lieus.”
    Harpagus stroked his narrow chin. “The temple needs a clerk skilled in the casting of accounts, to keep our books. Are you a man trained to that task?”
    It was Conan’s turn to shake his shaggy head. “Not I! I cannot add a column of numbers twice and arrive at the same sum.”
    “Well, then—ah! We do have need of a blacksmith, at least for a time; since ours lies dying of a wasting distemperature. Perchance you know that skill?”
    Conan’s teeth flashed whitely in a sudden grin. “My father was a smith, and I was apprenticed to him for years when I was young.”
    “Good; excellent! You have the thews for the task, at least. You may start work today. The Brythunian will show you to your smithy, now in the care of Pariskas’s bellows boy. He shall serve you in like capacity.”
    After settling such matters as Conan’s wage, living quarters for himself, and stabling for his horse, Harpagus said: “We are then agreed, my son. But you must understand that, for those who dwell in holy Yezud, there shall be no drinking of fermented liquors, no gambling, and no fornication. And all do promise to attend the services of holy Zath at least once every ten-day.” The Vicar paused, his brow furrowed. “Have I not met you on some previous occasion?”
    Conan felt his nape-hairs rise, but he spoke with a negligent air. “I think not, sir—unless it were a chance encounter in Nemedia or Brythunia, where I have served as a mercenary.”
    Harpagus shook his head. “Nay, I have never traveled to those lands. Still, your voice reminds me of someone I knew briefly … . No matter. Go with the guard to your new quarters. You will find enough accumulated tasks to keep you busy.”
    “One thing more, sir. I want my sword, now in the custody of the gate guards.”
    Harpagus smiled thinly. “You shall have it. Forbidding a blacksmith his weapon were like confiscating a poet’s verses; he’ll only make another.”
    As the Brythunian led Conan through the narrow streets, the Cimmerian growled: “Is the Vicar’s name Harpagus?”
    “Aye.”
    “So I thought. Did I understand him aright, that in Yezud there is no wine, nor beer, nor gambling, nor light love?”
    Morcant grinned. His manner had thawed to friendliness since learning that Conan would be a fellow employee of the temple. “High Priest Feridun is a very righteous man—a dolorously righteous man, and he hopes to impose his principles on all in Zamora. We of the Free Company go down to Bartakes’s Inn for our sinful amusements. Feridun would like to close down that place, too. But he does not dare, knowing that the Free Company would go on the road if such constraints were imposed upon us.”
    Conan gave a rumble of mirth, knowing full well that brigandage was the usual occupation of mercenary companies out of military employment; but rarely was it so plainly named.
    “I see no cause for merriment,” said Morcant crisply with a reproving stare.
    “No offense meant,” said Conan, wiping the smile from his lips. “But I’ve been a hired sword myself and know somewhat of the ways of mercenaries.”
    T he smithy was a simple, one-story affair, of which the larger section, open to the street, housed a forge, while a small apartment to the left did duty as the smith’s domestic quarters. As Conan