he hurled the knife. Old Tolkemec went down, truly slain at last, the hilt vibrating on his breast.
Tascela sprang—not toward Conan, but toward the wand where it shimmered like a live thing on the floor. But as she leaped, so did Valeria, with a dagger snatched from a dead man, and the blade, driven with all the power of the pirate’s muscles, impaled the princess of Tecuhltli so that the point stood out between her breasts. Tascela screamed once and fell dead, and Valeria spurned the body with her heel as it fell.
“I had to do that much, for my own self-respect!” panted Valeria, facing Conan across the limp corpse.
“Well, this cleans up the feud,” he grunted. “It’s been a hell of a night! Where did these people keep their food? I’m hungry.”
“You need a bandage on that leg.” Valeria ripped a length of silk from a hanging and knotted it about her waist, then tore off some smaller strips which she bound efficiently about the barbarian’s lacerated limb.
“I can walk on it,” he assured her. “Let’s begone. It’s dawn, outside this infernal city. I’ve had enough of Xuchotl. It’s well the breed exterminated itself. I don’t want any of their accursed jewels. They might be haunted.”
“There is enough clean loot in the world for you and me,” she said, straightening to stand tall and splendid before him.
The old blaze came back in his eyes, and this time she did not resist as he caught her fiercely in his arms.
“It’s a long way to the coast,” she said presently, withdrawing her lips from his.
“What matter?” he laughed. “There’s nothing we can’t conquer. We’ll have our feet on a ship’s deck before the Stygians open their ports for the trading season. And then we’ll show the world what plundering means!”
Your Name Is Eve
On Monday, Clancy and Eve went out to dinner. They found the ideal place in the dreams of an exhausted Wisconsin woman, a young mother who'd fallen asleep on the couch while watching the Food Network late at night, after an exhausting day taking care of her toddler. She dreamed of cooking with today's secret ingredient, sweet potatoes, and a host of delicious, wonderful dishes were served up by handsome men with swimmers' bodies and the faces of famous network chefs. As part of the judging committee, Clancy and Eve tested a series of dishes, from delicate appetizers to a rich soup, from spiced chicken to a desert casserole, each using the secret ingredient to great result.
Quite satisfied with the results, they gave the young woman high marks, granting her the title of Chef Supreme. While the new champion received congratulations and accolades from everyone she’d ever known and respected, Clancy and Eve made a quiet exit from the arena. As "payment" for the experience, Clancy wove some dreamstuff together into a moment of pure joy, and gently blew it from his fingers. It drifted away, caught by a tiny cinnamon-scented wind until it wrapped around the young mother. She'd awake with a smile on her lips, the unspoken conviction that all was right with her world, and the renewed desire to cook for pleasure. Perhaps someday, it would take her further, to a cookbook, or a cooking show of her own.
As they lingered on the dream’s outskirts, Clancy and Eve made quiet conversation, exchanging their opinions of the meal, their words dissipating rapidly in the way such things do in dreams. Clancy complimented the overall meal, though he admitted one dish had too much nutmeg. While he occasionally changed his appearance, tonight he wore his favorite guise: that of a tall, lean man with dark eyes and darker hair, with forgettable, yet familiar features. Were someone to describe him, they'd invariably compare him to one of those character actors, the one who played the friend in that movie, you know? He was impeccably dressed in a suit that had been fashionable in the early 1940s, and he carried the look as though it was made for him.
Eve agreed on the nutmeg issue, but felt it hadn’t detracted from the overall experience, which was quite splendid, if a little unsophisticated. Then, wryly, she admitted that she didn’t mind that sort of thing, as the fancier things always intimidated her a little. But, she reassured Clancy, his presence always made things easier, part of why she enjoyed their outings. Unlike Clancy, she remained constant, appearing as a young woman in her early twenties, daisy-blonde and blue-eyed, with soft features and an often-perplexed expression, as though trying to remember something just out of reach. Tonight, she wore a cream-colored dress with blue accents, a simple affair that flashed hints of thigh every so often, catching Clancy's gaze more than once.
They wrapped up their after-dinner conversation by deciding when and where to meet next time. At first, they batted around the idea of dinner again, with Clancy claiming he knew a one-legged Mediterranean fisherman who would change the way Eve saw Greek food forever. Then Eve pointed out that they did dinner a lot, and she wouldn’t mind a change of pace. Eventually, a decision was reached, and they parted ways. Clancy melted into the white clouds surrounding them, while Eve drifted away on the tides of the dreamwinds. Neither spoke of what they did or where they went when not together, for Eve did not remember and Clancy did not care to share. Such was the way of it all. They’d been doing this for as long as Eve could recall, the date of their first meeting lost somewhere in the past.
On Wednesday, Clancy took Eve dancing in the dreams of an old Southern woman who'd spent the past decade living in a nursing home and waiting for the slow, if inevitable, end. She dreamed of her youth, of wearing short skirts and bobbing her hair and acting entirely inappropriately for the time and place, and thus fashioned for herself an idealized Prohibition-era speakeasy, complete with jazz band. Clancy, in deference to the occasion, donned a knee-length raccoon coat he'd seen once upon a time, while Eve wore an archetypical flapper's dress, showing off generous portions of leg up to the knee whenever she moved too enthusiastically, which was frequently. Clancy and Eve danced the Charleston, the Shimmy, the Bunny Hug and the Black Bottom, before breaking for drinks, where a dark-eyed bartender served them in solemn silence. Laughing with delight, exhausted from their efforts, they scored a small table off to the side, where they could listen to the music and watch faceless couples go through other, less-defined dances of the era, while their dreamer fell in love all over again with a man who'd break her heart.
As usual, Eve was the one to initiate conversation. As she swirled her cocktail around in its glass, watching the contents spiral, she commented upon the quaintness of it all, how dull it was compared to modern culture, and how shocking it had been once upon a time.
Clancy, far more interested in watching Eve than in drinking, nodded slowly in agreement, though he wasn’t inclined to elaborate on what he thought. This was nothing new; he was a man of few words even at the best of times, as though he’d heard it all and said it all and disliked repetition. As a result, their conversation was idle, conducted between drinks and dancing, with words fading like static in the background. Oddly content with this arrangement, Clancy was surprised when the dream came to an end and it was time for them to part ways.
This time, Clancy took Eve into his arms, giving in to the desire to hold her close for a long, tender moment. She nestled in against his chest, head fitting under his chin perfectly. He held her like that, allowing himself to feel something strange and warm inside, but released her before he could put a name to the feeling. It represented something, a subtle change in the way they’d interacted before, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
When Eve vanished into the mists, Clancy remained behind, surrounded by the evaporating wisps of the dream, hands buried in his pockets. For several long moments, he stood still, lost in thought, and then he too faded. In the waking world, their host startled awake, and it took several minutes before the pangs of nostalgia
