Stephano waved that last away as unimportant, though Albanus noted he did not ask for the guards to be spared their promised flogging.
“You have heard of me?” the sculptor asked instead, his chest puffing.
“Of course,” Albanus replied, hard put not to laugh. This man was read as easily as a page of large script. “’Tis why I want you to sculpt this statue for me. As you can see, your implements are all provided.” He gestured a low table that held every sort of sculptor’s tool.
“’Tis all wrong,” Stephano said with overbearing condescension. “Clay is used for small figures. Statues are of stone or bronze.”
Albanus’ lips retained their smile, but his eyes were frozen coals. “The clay is brought all the way from Khitai.” He could think of no more distant land to serve as a source. “When fired, it has the hardness of bronze, yet is lighter than the damp clay. On the table are sketches of he whom the statue is to portray. Examine them.”
Looking doubtfully at the block of clay, Stephano took up the parchments, unrolled them, and gasped, “Why, this is Garian!”
“Our gracious king,” Albanus agreed unctuously, though he near choked on the words. “’Tis to be a present for him. A surprise.”
“But how is the work to be clothed?” the sculptor asked, ruffling through the drawings. “In all of these is he naked.”
“And so is the sculpture to be.” Albanus forestalled the surprise on Stephano’s face by adding, “Such is the custom of Khitai with statues of this clay. They are clothed in actual garments, this raiment being changed from time to time so that the figure is clothed always in the latest fashion.” He was pleased with himself for that invention. He wondered if it might not be amusing to have a statue done so of himself once he ascended the throne.
Stephano laughed suddenly, a harsh sound like the scraping of slates. “And what would be done with a naked statue of Garian, were Garian no longer on the throne?”
“An unlikely event,” Albanus said blandly.
Stephano looked startled, as if not realizing he had spoken aloud. “Of course. Of course.” His face hardened, thick brows drawing down. “Yet why should I accept the offer of this commission, following as it does a night spent locked in your cellars?”
“A grievous error for which I have apologized. Shall we say a thousand gold marks?”
“I have no interest in gold,” the sculptor sneered.
“To be distributed to the poor,” Albanus continued smoothly. “I have heard much of the good charities you do in Hellgate.” Stephano’s face did not soften, but the hawk-faced lord saw the way. His voice became a mesmeric whisper. “Think of all the good that you could do with a thousand pieces of gold. Think of your fellows following you as you distribute it. I would wager none of them has ever had the hundredth part so much to give.” Stephano nodded slowly, staring at the wall as if he saw a scene there. “How they would laud you, following in your steps with their praises. How great you would be in their eyes.” Albanus fell silent, waiting.
Stephano seemed to stand straighter. Abruptly he shook himself and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of a certainty, great good could come from so much gold. I was lost in thought of those I could help.”
“Of course.” The cruel-faced lord smiled, then his voice became brisker. “This must be a surprise to Garian. To that end, none may know that you are here. Food and drink will be brought to you. And women, should you desire. Daily will you have leave of the gardens, an you remember your caution. Now get you to your labor, for time presses.”
When Albanus had left that room, he stood, trembling, between the guards who stood with bared swords to either side of the door. His stomach roiled with nausea. That he should have to treat one such as Stephano as near an equal! It was ill to be borne. Yet such could not be driven to their work by threat or even torture, as he had discovered to his regret, for the works they then produced were fatally flawed.
A deferential touch on the sleeve of his tunic brought him erect, teeth bared in a snarl.
The slave who had touched him cowered back, his head bent low. “Forgive me, master, but Commander Vegentius awaits, much exercised, and bids me beg your presence.”
Albanus thrust the man aside and strode down the hall. He had every detail planned. Had the soldier contrived to foul some part of the scheme, he would geld him with his own hand.
Vegentius was in the columned entry hall, pacing, his face beaded with sweat. He began to speak as soon as Albanus appeared.
“Conan. The barbar who fought Melius and took his sword after. He whom Leucas named part of Sephana’s plot. Now one of that name has caught Garian’s eye, and taken service with him. And I recognize him; it is he who broke into our meeting with Taras. Four times has he tangled himself in our planning, Albanus, and I like it not. I like it not. ’Tis an ill omen.”
“Do the gods join in my affairs?” Albanus whispered, not realizing that he spoke. “Do they think to contend with me?” Louder, he said, “Speak not of ill omens. This very morning a soothsayer told me that I would wear the Dragon Crown at my death. I had him slain, of course, to still his tongue. With such a prophecy of success, what omen can one barbarian be?”
The square-faced soldier bared a handspan of his blade. “Easily could I slay him. He is alone in the Palace, with none to guard his back.”
“Fool!” Albanus grated. “A murder within the Palace, and Garian will think strongly to his safety. We do not need him on his guard.”
Vegentius sneered. “His safety lies in my hand. One in three of the Golden Leopards answers to me, not to the Dragon Throne.”
“And two in three do not. Nor does any part of my plan call for blades to be drawn within the walls of the Palace. I must be seen to save Nemedia from armed rabble rising in the streets.”
“Then he is to live?” Vegentius blurted incredulously.
“Nay, he dies.” Could this Conan be some weapon of the gods, lifted against him? No. He was destined to wear the Dragon Crown. He was born to be a king, and, with the power of the blue sphere, a living god. “Taras has been so commanded,” he continued. “But make it known to him that the man must die well away from the Palace, in some place where his death may be placed to a drunken brawl.”
“Taras seems to have vanished, Albanus.”
“Then find him!” the cruel-eyed lord snapped irritably. “And remember, within the Palace walls let this barbarian be watched but inviolate. When he ventures out, slay him!”
IV
Steel rang in the small courtyard as Conan blocked the descending blade and smoothly moved back to a guard position. Sweat oiled his massive chest, but his breathing was controlled, his eye firm, his blade steady.
Garian circled to his left about the big Cimmerian. He also was stripped to the waist, and but slightly smaller, though his muscles were covered by the fat of recent inactivity. Sweat rolled down his sloping shoulders, and his blade wavered, if but a hair’s breadth.
“You are good, barbar,” the king panted.
Conan said nothing, moving only enough to keep his face to the other man. Fighting, even in practice, was not the time to talk.
“But you say little,” the king continued, and as he spoke his sword darted for the Cimmerian’s middle.
Conan barely moved. His mighty wrists pivoted, his blade arced down to clash against the king’s, carrying it safely to one side. Instead of forcing taking the other’s blade further out of line, as was the favored tactic, Conan dropped suddenly, squatting on his right leg with his left extended to the side. His steel slid off the other blade, swung forward and stopped as it touched Garian’s stomach. Before the startled king could react, Conan flowed back to his feet and to guard.
A disgusted expression on his face, Garian stepped back. “’Tis enough for today,” he said grimly, and strode away.
Conan picked up his tunic and began to wipe the sweat from his chest.
When Garian had disappeared through the arched courtyard gate, Hord
o stepped out from the shadows beneath a balcony, shaking his shaggy head. “Tis well he knew not that I was here, Cimmerian, else we both might find ourselves in the dungeons beneath these stones. But then, kings dislike being bested, even when there are no others to see.”
“Did I accept defeat in practice, then soon defeat would find me when it was not practice.”
“But still, man, could you not hold back a little? He is a king, after all. No need for us to be dismissed before we get as much of his gold as we can.”
“I know no other way to fight, Hordo, save to win. How fare the men?”
“Well,” Hordo replied, seating himself on a coping stone. “’Tis an easy life, drinking and wenching away their gold.”
Conan pulled his tunic over his head and scabbarded his sword. “Have you seen any sign that Ariane and the others are ready to call their people into the streets?”
“Not a whisper,” the one-eyed man sighed. “Conan, I do not say betray them—Kerin’s shade would haunt me, an I did—but could we not at least say to Garian that we have heard talk of uprising? He’d give us much gold for such a warning, and there’d be no rising were he on his guard. I like not to think of Kerin and Ariane dying in the gutters, but so they will an they rise. I … I could not ride against them, Cimmerian.”
“Nor I, Hordo. But rise they will, if Garian is on his guard or no, or I misread the fire in Ariane. To stop them we must find who uses them. That man who met with Taras could tell me much.”
“I’ve given orders, as you said, to watch for a hawk-face man with white at his temples, but ’twill be a gift of the gods an we find him so.”
Conan shook his head disgustedly. “I know. But we can do only what we can. Come. Let us to my chamber. I’ve good wine there.”
Palaces far more opulent stood in Turan and Vendhya, but this one was no mean place. Many were the courtyards and gardens, some small, holding perhaps a marble fountain in the form of some fanciful beast, others large, in which rose alabaster towers with gilded corbeled arches and golden cupolas. Great obelisks rose to the sky, their sides covered with hieroglyphs and telling the legends of Nemedian kings for a thousand years and more.
While walking down a cool arcade beside a garden where peacocks cried and golden-feathered pheasants strutted, Conan suddenly stopped. Ahead, a woman swathed in gray veils had come out of a door and, seemingly not noticing them, was walking the other way. The Cimmerian was certain it was the woman he had twice seen in her litter. Now, he decided, was a good time to discover why she had looked at him with such hatred. But as he started forward, Hordo grabbed his arm, pulling him aside behind a column.
“I want to speak to that woman,” Conan said. He spoke softly, for voices carried in those arcades. “She does not like me, of that I’m sure. And I have seen her before, without those veils. But where?”
“I, too, have seen her,” Hordo replied in a hoarse whisper, “though not without the veils. She is called Lady Tiana, and ’tis said her face is scarred by some disease. She will not allow it to be seen.”
“I’ll not ask to see her face,” Conan said impatiently.
“Listen to me,” the one-eyed man pleaded. “Once I followed Eranius when he left us to get his orders. Always, I knew, he went to the Street of Regrets, each time to a different tavern. This time he left the city entire, and in a grove beyond the wall met this Lady Tiana.”
“Then she is part of the smuggling,” Conan said. “That may provide a lever, if she proves difficult about answering my questions.”
“You do not understand, Cimmerian. I was not close enough to hear what was said, yet did I see Eranius all but grovel before her. He would not do so unless she were high, very high, in the ring. Bother her, and you may find ten score smugglers in this city, hard men all, seeking your head.”
“Mayhap they do already.” Assuredly someone did; why not a woman who seemed to hate him, for whatever reason? He shrugged off Hordo’s hand. “She will be gone if I do not go now.
But Conan paused, for as the Lady Tiana reached the end of the arcade, the blonde who had accompanied Garian appeared before her. Sularia, he had learned her name was, and she was indeed Garian’s mistress. The veiled woman moved to go past, but Sularia, in golden breastplates and a golden silk skirt no wider than a man’s hand front or rear, sidestepped in front of her.
“All honor to you, Lady Tiana,” Sularia said, a malicious smile playing over her sensual lips. “But why are you covered so on such a bright day? I know you would be lovely, could we but persuade you into bangles and silks.”
The veiled woman’s hand flashed out, cracking across Sularia’s face in a backhand blow that sent the blonde crumpling to the ground. Conan was stunned at the blow; it had taken no common woman’s strength.
Sularia stumbled to her feet, rage twisting her face into a mask. “How dare you strike me?” she spat. “I—”
“To your kennel, bitch!” a third woman snapped, appearing beside the other two. Tall and willowy, she was as beautiful as Sularia, but with silken black hair and imperious dark eyes in a haughty face. Her blue velvet robe, sewn with tiny pearls, made the blonde look a tavern girl.
“Speak not so to me, Lady Jelanna,” Sularia answered angrily. “I am no servant, and soon … .” She stopped suddenly.
Jelanna’s mouth curled in a sneer. “You are a slut, and soon enough Garian will decide so for himself. Now, get you gone before I summon a slave to whip you hence.”
Sularia trembled from head to foot, her face venomous. With an inarticulate cry of rage, she sped away from the two women, past where Conan and Hordo stood behind the column.
Conan watched her go; when he turned back, Jelanna and Tiana were gone. Scowling, he leaned against the stone.
“In this place I could search a tenday and not find her,” he growled. “I should have spoken straight off, instead of letting you draw me away like a frightened boy.”
“Mitra, Conan, let us ride from this city.” Hordo’s single eye fixed the Cimmerian with entreaty. “Forget Lady Tiana. Forget Garian, and his gold. There’s gold in Ophir, and when we take blade-fee there, at least we’ll know who wants to kill us.”
Conan shook his head. “Never have I run away from my enemies, Hordo. ’Tis a bad habit to form. Go you on to the taverns. I go to my chamber to think on how to find this Tiana. I’ll find you later, and match you two drinks to one.”
As the Cimmerian started away, Hordo called after him. “Always before you knew who your enemies were!”
But Conan walked on. A wise man did not leave an unknown enemy behind him, but rather sought that enemy out. Better to die than flee, for once flight began how could it end? The enemy would come at last, and victory or death would be decided then at a time and place of the foe’s choosing. While there was yet life and will, the enemy must be sought.
Reaching his chamber, Conan put his hand to the door; it shifted at his touch. The latch had been drawn. Warily he drew his blade and stepped aside. With swordpoint he thrust the door open. It swung back to crash against the wall, but there was no other sound, no hint of movement within.
Snarling, the big Cimmerian threw himself through the open door in a long dive, tucking his shoulder under as he hit the floor to roll to his feet, sword at the ready.
Sularia sat up on his bed, crossing her long legs sensuously beneath her and clapping her hands with delight. “Horseman, bowman, swordsman, and now tumbler. What other tricks have you, barbarian?”
Keeping a tight rein on his anger, Conan closed the door. He was no man to enjoy making a fool of himself before a woman, most especially not a beautiful woman. When he turned back to her his eyes were blue glacier ice.
“Why are you here, woman?”
“How magnificent you are,” she breathed, “with the sweat of combat still on you. You defeated him, didn’t you? Garian could not stand against one such as you.”
Hastily he searched the room, flipping aside each tapestry on the wall, putting his head
out of the window to make sure no assassin clung to the copings. Even did he look under the bed, before her amused smile made him throw the coverlet back down with an oath.
“What do you look for, Conan? I have no husband to jump out accusing.”
“You have a king,” he growled. One look at her, golden breastplates barely containing her swelling orbs, narrow strips of golden silk tangled about her thighs, proved she could carry no weapon greater than a pin.
“A king who can talk of nothing but tariffs and grain and things even more boring.” A sultry smile caressed her lips, and she let herself fall backwards on the bed, breathing deep. “But you, barbarian, are not boring. I sense power in you, though afar as yet. Will you become a king, I wonder?”
Conan frowned. That sequence of words seemed to touch some deeply buried memory. Power. That he would be a king. He thrust it all from his mind. A fancy for children, no more.
He laid his sword across the bed above Sularia’s head. It would be close to hand there, let come who would. The blonde twisted to gaze at the bare blade, wetting her lips as if its closeness excited her. Conan clutched the golden links that joined her breastplates in his fist and tore them from her. Her eyes darted back to him, the icy sapphire of his commanding the smouldering blue of hers.
“You have played a game with me, woman,” he said softly. “Now ’tis my turn to play.”
Neither of them saw the door move ajar, nor the woman in gray veils who stood there a time, watching them with eyes of emerald fire.
XV
As Conan walked through the Palace the next afternoon, Hordo ran to join him.
“’Tis well to see you, Cimmerian. I had some niggling fears when I did not meet you in the taverns last night.”
“I found something else to do,” Conan smiled.