“I do so swear,” he said slowly.
Abruptly he knew why he had not hired his Free-Company out. Without a doubt, a company in service to merchant or noble would be expected to support the throne in a rebellion. But he wanted no part of crushing Ariane and her friends. Most especially not Ariane.
“I’ve wondered,” he went on, “when you would speak to me of this revolt of yours.”
Ariane gasped. “You know,” she whispered. Quickly she put her fingers on his lips to prevent him speaking. “Come with me.”
He followed her through the tables into the back of the inn. There, in a small room, Stephano slouched scowling against the flaking wall, and Graecus, the stocky sculptor, straddled a bench, grinning. Leucas, a thin man with a big nose who called himself a philosopher, sat cross-legged on the floor chewing his lower lip.
“He knows,” Ariane said as she closed the door, and they all jumped.
Conan casually put his hand to his sword hilt.
“He knows!” Stephano yelped. “I told you he was dangerous. I told you we should have nothing to do with him. This is not our part of it.”
“Keep your voice down,” Ariane said firmly. “Do you want to tell everyone in the inn?” He subsided sulkily, and she went on, addressing the others too. “It’s true that recruiting men like Conan was not part of what we were supposed to do, but I’ve heard each one of you complain that you wanted to take a more direct part.”
“At least you can write poetry taunting Garian,” Graecus muttered. “All I can do is copy what you write and scatter it in the streets. I can’t do a sculpture to rouse the people.”
“King Garian sits on the Dragon Throne,” Conan said suddenly. They all stared at him. “King Garian sits to his feast alone. I saw that one. Did you write it, Ariane?”
“Gallia’s work,” she said drily. “I write much better than that.”
“This is all beside the point,” Stephano shrilled. “We all know why you trust him, Ariane.” He met Conan’s icy blue stare and swallowed hard. “I think what we do is dangerous. We should leave hiring this sort of … this sort of man to Taras. He knows them. We don’t.”
“We know Conan,” Ariane persisted. “And we all agreed—yes, you too, Stephano—that we should take a part in finding fighting men, whatever Taras says. With Conan we get not one, but forty.”
“If they’ll follow him,” Graecus said.
“They will follow me wherever there is gold,” Conan replied.
Graecus looked a little unsettled at that, and Stephano laughed mockingly, “Gold!”
“Fools!” Ariane taunted. “How many times have we talked of those who claimed that revolution should be kept pure, that only those who fought for the right reasons should be allowed to take part? How many of them went to the impaling stake for their purity?”
“Our cause is just,” Stephano grated. “We taint it with gold.”
Ariane shook her head wearily. “Time and again we have argued this. The time for such argument is long past, Stephano. How think you Taras gathers fighting men? With gold, Stephano. Gold!”
“And from the start did I oppose it,” the lanky sculptor replied. “The people—”
“Would follow us and rise,” she cut him off. “They would follow us and, none of us knowing aught of weapons or war, would be cut down.”
“Our ideals,” he muttered.
“Are not enough.” She glared at each of her fellow conspirators in turn, and they shifted uneasily beneath her gaze. Of them all, Conan realized, the strongest will was housed within her sweet curves.
“What I want,” Graecus announced, “is a chance to hold a sword in my hand. Conan, can I ride with you on the day?”
“I have not said I would join you,” Conan replied slowly.
Ariane gasped, clutching her hands beneath her rounded breasts, her face a picture of dismay. Graecus sat open-mouthed.
“I told you he was not to be trusted,” Stephano muttered.
“My men will follow me,” the Cimmerian went on, “but not if I lead them only to the headsman’s block or the impaling stake. I cannot join you without some idea of your chances of success, and to know that I must know your plans.”
“He could betray us,” Stephano said quickly.