By the time she reached Albanus’ palace, she was running, though nothing pursued her but emptiness. Panting, she fell against the gate, her small fist pounding on the iron-bound planks. “Let me in!”
A suspicious eye regarded her through a small opening in the gate, swiveling both ways to see if she was accompanied.
“Mitra’s mercy, let me in!”
The bars rattled aside, and the guard opened a crack barely wide enough for her to slip through.
Before she had taken a full step inside an arm seized her about the waist, swinging her into the air with crude laughter. She gasped as a hand squeezed her buttock roughly, and she looked down into a narrow face. The nose had the tip gone.
“A fine bit,” he laughed. “Enough to keep us all warm, even in this wind.” His half-score companions added their jocularity to his.
The mirth drained from his face as he felt the point of her short dagger prick him under the ear. “I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian,” she hissed coldly. Mitra, how long had it been since she had used that name? “An Lord Albanus leaves anything of you, I’ve no doubt my father will tend to the rest.”
His hands left her as though scalded; her feet thumped to the ground. “Your pardon, my lady,” he stammered. The rest stared with mouths open. “All honor to you. I did not mean … .”
“I will find my own way,” she announced haughtily, and swept away while he was still attempting to fit together an apology.
Arrogance, she decided as she made her way up the flagstone walk, was her only hope, arriving at a lord’s palace without servants or guards. When one of the great carven doors was opened by a gray-bearded man with a chamberlain’s seal on his tunic, her large hazel eyes were adamantine.
“I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian,” she announced. “Show me to the sculptor, Stephano Melliarus.”
His jaw dropped, and he peered vaguely past her down the walk as if seeking her retinue. “Forgive me … my lady … but I … know no man named Stephano.”
Brusquely she pushed by him into the columned entry-hall. “Show me to Lord Albanus,” she commanded. Inside she quivered. Suppose Conan had been mistaken. What if Stephano were not there? Yet the thought of returning to those barren streets spurred her on.
The chamberlain’s mouth worked, beard waggling, then he said faintly, “Follow me, please,” adding, “my lady,” as an afterthought.
The room in which he left her, while going “to inform Lord Albanus” of her presence, was spacious. The tapestries were brightly colored; flickering golden lamps cast a cheery glow after the gloom of the streets. But the pleasant surroundings did naught to stem her growing apprehension. What if she was seeking one who was not there, making a fool of herself before this lord who was a stranger to her? Bit by bit, her facade of arrogance melted. When Lord Albanus entered, the last vestiges of it were swept away by his stern gaze.
“You seek a man called Stephano,” the hard-faced man said without preamble. “Why do you think he is here?”
She found herself wanting to wring her hands and instead clutched them tightly in her cloak, but she could not stop the torrent of words and worries. “I must talk to him. No one else will talk with me, and Taras is dead, and Conan says we are being betrayed, and … .” She managed a deep, shuddering breath. “Forgive me, Lord Albanus. If Stephano is not here, I will go.”
Albanus’ dark eyes had widened as she spoke. Now he fumbled in a pouch at his belt, saying, “Wait. Have you ever seen the like of this?”
His fingers brought out a gemstone of almost fiery white; he muttered words she could not hear as he thrust it at her.
Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the gem as iron to lodestone. Suddenly a pale beam sprang from the stone, bathing her face. Her breath came out in a grunt, as if she had been struck. Panic filled her. She must run. But all she could do was tremble, dancing helpless in that one spot as whiteness blotted out all her vision. Run, she screamed in the depths of her mind. Why, came the question. Panic dissolved. Will dissolved. The beam winked out, and she stood, breathing calmly, looking into the pale stone, now more fiery seeming than before.
“’Tis done,” she heard Albanus murmur, “but how well?” In a louder voice he said, “Remove your garments, girl.”
Some tiny corner of her being brought a flush to her cheek, but to the rest it seemed a reasonable command. Swiftly she dropped her cloak, undid the brooches that held her robes. They fell in a welter about her feet, and she stood, hands curled delicately on her rounded thighs, one knee slightly bent, waiting.
Albanus eyed her curved nudity and smiled mirthlessly. “If you obey that command so readily, you’ll tell the truth an you die for it. Taras, girl. Is he in truth dead? How did he die?”
“Conan slew him,” she replied calmly.
“Erlik take that accursed barbar!” the dark lord snarled. “No wonder Vegentius could not find Taras. And how am I to send orders … .” His scowl lessened; he peered at her thoughtfully. “You are one of those foolish children who prate of rebellion at the Sign of Thestis, aren’t you?”
Her answer was hesitant. “I am.” His words seemed in some way wrong, yet the irritation was dimly felt and distant.
Albanus’ fingers gripped her chin, lifting her head, and though they dug painfully into her cheeks she knew no urge to resist. Her large eyes met his obsidian gaze openly.
“When I wish the streets to fill with howling mobs,” he said softly, “you will carry my words to the Thestis, saying exactly what I command and no more.”
“I will,” she said. Like the bite of a gnat, something called her to struggle, then faded.
He nodded. “Good. This Conan, now. What did he say to you of betrayal?”
“That Taras hired no armed men to aid us. That another used us for his own purposes.”
“Did he name this other?” Albanus asked sharply.
She shook her head, feeling tired of talking, wanting to sleep.
“No matter,” Albanus muttered. “I underestimated the barbar. He becomes more dangerous with every turn of the glass. Varius! A messenger to go to Commander Vegentius! Quickly, if you value your hide! Stand up straight, girl.”
Ariane straightened obediently, and watched Albanus scribble a message on parchment. She wished only to sleep, but knew she could not until her master permitted. She accepted his will completely now; even the tiny pinpricks of resistance fled.
XVIII
As the deep tone of a bronze gong sounded the first turn of the glass past full sundown, Conan uncoiled smoothly from his bed in the darkness of his room. Already he was prepared for his night’s venture, in bare feet and tunic with a dagger at his belt. Sword and armor would hamper where he went.
On silent feet he moved to the window, climbed onto the stone lip, and twisted with cat-like grace to find places for his fingers above. It was not a natural thing for men to look up, even when searching. Therefore the best way to go unobserved was to travel high. Scudding purple clouds crossed a gibbous moon, casting shadows that walked and danced. Conan became one with the shadows.
Even in that smooth-dressed stone, crevices and chinks were to be found by knowledgeable fingers and toes. Stone cornices and the rims of friezes made a pathway for him to the roof. With swift care he crossed its tiles, dropping on the far side to a rampart walk that bore no sentry, here in the heart of the Palace. Through an embrasure between man-high merlons he lowered himself to the roof of a colonnade three stories above the flagstoned courtyard below.
Within the Palace behind him an alarm bell abruptly began to toll, and he froze there in the shifting shadows. Shouts carried to him, though he could make out no word. He frowned. To such an alarm Vegentius would surely be summoned. And yet the hue and cry was not general, for no sudden lights or tramp of marching men disturbed the outer part of the Palace. Eventually it would subside, and Vegentius would of a certainty return to his quarters. A lupine smile split the Cimmerian’s face. He would return to find one waiting to ask qu
estions, and demand answers.
Swiftly Conan hurried on, running along the roof, scaling another wall at its end with ease, then along the length of it uncaring of the dark below him, or the stones that waited if foot should slip or grip fail. Halting, he lay flat, swiveled his legs and hips over the edge, and climbed down the short distance to the window of Vegentius’ sleeping chamber.
Dagger sliding from its sheath, the big Cimmerian entered the room like silent death. Some few brass lamps were lit, casting dim illumination there and in the outer chamber, yet both were empty, as he had feared. Grimly he settled himself by the door of the inner room to wait.
Long was that vigil, yet he kept it with the silent, unmoving patience of a hunting beast. Even when he heard the door of the outer chamber open, only his hand on the dagger moved, firming its grip. But the tread was of a single man. Conan flattened himself against the wall by the door as the footsteps came closer.
A tall shape entered the room, golden-cloaked and wearing the red-crested helmet of the Golden Leopards’ commander. Conan’s empty fist struck against the back of the man’s neck, and with a groan the other fell, rolling onto his back. The Cimmerian stared in amazement. It was not Vegentius.
And then a howling horde in golden cloaks poured through the outer chamber to fall on him. Roaring, Conan fought. His dagger found a throat, and was torn from his grasp as the dying man fell. Teeth splintered and jaws broke beneath his hammer blows. One man he neatly hurled screaming through the window by which he had entered. Yet by sheer weight of numbers did they force him down. He found himself on his back, three men holding each arm and leg, though many of them spat blood. Writhing, he strained every thew, but he could only shift them, not gain freedom.
Vegentius, helmetless and wearing a look of great satisfaction, appeared in the doorway. “You can see that I was right,” he said to someone still in the other chamber. “He intended to slay me first, so that if your death were discovered before he could flee, my absence in command might aid his escape.”
Wrapped tightly in a cloak, his bruise standing out against the paleness of his cheeks, Garian stepped into the room. He stood gazing down at Conan in horrified wonder. “Even when I heard the others I could hardly believe,” he whispered. A shudder went through him. “A score of times has he had me at the point of his blade.”
“But then he would have surely been known as your assassin,” Vegentius said smoothly.
“Liar!” Conan spat at the massive soldier. “I came here to force you to admit your own foul treachery.”
Vegentius’ face darkened, and he put a hand to his sword, but Garian stopped him with a gesture. The King moved closer to address the Cimmerian.
“Hear me, Conan. Before dusk began to fall this day, Vegentius arrested those who conspired with you. A man called Graecus. A woman, Gallia. Some three or four others. Do you deny knowing them, or that they plotted against my throne?”
Conan’s brain roiled. Was Ariane among those taken? Yet to ask, naming her, was to give her into their hands if they did not have her. “Foolish youths,” he said. “They talk, and will talk till they are gray and toothless, harming no one. Yet there are those who would use them.” He cut off with a grunt as Vegentius’ boot caught him under the ribs.
Garian waved the soldier back and spoke on. “Vegentius put these you call harmless to the question, and within two turns of the glass he had broken them. He brought them before me, those who could still speak, and from their mouths I heard them admit they plotted my murder, and that you are he who was to wield the blade.”
“I am no murderer!” Conan protested, but Garian continued as if he had not spoken.
“The alarm was given; you were sought. And found lying in wait, dagger in hand. Your actions convict you.”
“His head will adorn a pike before dawn,” Vegentius said.
“No,” Garian said softly. “I trusted this man.” He wiped his hands on the edge of his cloak, as if ritually. His eyes were cold on Conan’s face. “Long has it been since the ancient penalty for plotting to slay he who wears the Dragon Crown was last invoked. Let it be invoked now.” Drawing his cloak about him, he turned his face from the Cimmerian and strode from the chamber.
Vegentius stared after him, then down at Conan. Abruptly he laughed, throwing back his head. “The ancient penalty, barbar. Fitting. To the dungeons with him!”
One of those holding Conan shifted. The Cimmerian saw a descending sword hilt, then saw no more.
XIX
Albanus smiled to himself as his sedan chair was borne through the night, up the winding streets that led through the Temple District to the Royal Palace. So close now, he was, to his inevitable triumph. He savored each step the bearers took, carrying him nearer his goal.
Ahead two torchbearers strode, and twenty guards surrounded him, though the streets were as empty as a tomb millenia old. Those truly important to him marched on either side of his chair, heavily cloaked and hooded, the woman and the man-shape. So close.
As the procession approached the gate of the Palace, Albanus uttered a command. His sedan chair was lowered to the ground. Even as the hawk-faced man climbed out, Vegentius crossed the drawbridge. Albanus looked at the guards and raised an inquiring brow.
“As planned,” the soldier said quietly. “All men standing guard this night are loyal to me. My best.”
“Good,” Albanus said. “And Conan?”
“In the dungeons. Garian shouted so about invoking the ancient penalty that I could not kill him out of hand. The alarm had wakened others by then.” His red-crested helmet bobbed as he spat disgustedly. “But he can go to the same unmarked grave as Garian.”
The hawk-faced lord laughed softly. “No, Vegentius. I find the ancient ways a fitting end for this barbarian.”
“Better to kill him straight out,” Vegentius grumbled, but pursued it no further. Stooping, he attempted to look under the hood of the man-shape behind Albanus. “Does he truly look like—”
“Let us go,” Albanus said, and strode forward, Ariane and the simulacrum at his heels. Vegentius could do naught but follow.
The dark lord hurried over the drawbridge exultantly, and into the Palace. Often had his feet trod these halls, yet now it was tread of possessor, of conqueror. When a shadow moved and resolved into Sularia, he stared at her with imperious fury.
“Why are you here, woman? I commanded you to remain in your apartments until I sent for you.”
Her gaze met his without flinching, and even in the dim light the eager glow of her eyes was apparent. “I want to see him fall before you.”
Albanus nodded slowly. There would be pleasure in that. “But make no sound,” he warned. Shoulders back and head high, as a king in his own palace, he moved on.
Before the door to Garian’s chambers four guards stood, stiffening at the party’s approach.
Vegentius stepped forward. “He sleeps?” One of the four nodded. “Who else is within?”
He who had nodded spoke. “Only the serving girl, to bring him wine if he wakes.”
“Slay her,” Albanus said, and Vegentius started.
“You said you could make her remember nothing, Albanus. Questions may be asked if the girl disappears.”
“The method can only be used on one person at a time,” Albanus replied, fingers absently stroking the pouch that held the white gem. “Slay her.”
Vegentius nodded to the guard who had spoken. The man slipped inside, returning in moments with a bloody blade to resume his post.
Albanus led the others in, sparing not a glance for the crumpled form of a woman lying across an overturned stool. The second room, Garian’s sleeping chamber itself, was dim, the lamp wicks trimmed low. Garian lay on his bed amid rumpled blankets.
“Turn up the lamps, Sularia,” Albanus commanded quietly. Not taking her eyes from the man in the bed, the blonde hastened to obey. To the two hooded figures, the lord said, “Remove your cloaks.”
Vegentius gasped as the simu
lacrum obeyed. “’Tis Garian’s very image!”
Sularia turned from a golden lamp, but her exclamation at the sight of the King’s double was cut short as, with narrowing eyes, her gaze caught Ariane. “Who is she?” the blonde demanded.
Ariane looked straight ahead, unmoving, until another command was given. The simulacrum peered about him curiously.
On the bed, Garian suddenly sat bolt upright. Growing more amazed by the instant, his eye jumped from Albanus to Sularia to Vegentius. “What,” he began, but the words died. Mouth open, he stared at the duplicate of himself. Unperturbed, the simulacrum gazed back inquisitively.
Albanus felt like laughing. “Garian,” he said mockingly, “this is he who will sit on the Dragon Throne for the last days of your line. For your usurping lineage now ends.”
“Guards!” Garian shouted. From beneath his pillows a dagger appeared in his hand, and he leaped from the bed. “Guards!”
“Take him,” Albanus ordered the simulacrum, “as I told you.” Growing more amazed by the instant, his eye jumped from Albanus to Sularia to Vegentius.
The duplicate moved forward, and Garian’s dagger struck with a fighter’s speed. To be caught easily by an inhumanly powerful grip on Garian’s wrist. Astonishment was replaced on his face by pain as those fingers tightened. The dagger fell from nerveless fingers.
Before that blade clattered on the floor, the simulacrum’s other hand seized the true King by the throat, lifting him until his toes kicked frantically above a handspan of air. No sign of strain was on the construct’s face as it watched that other like its own turn slowly purple. Garian’s struggles weakened, then ceased. Casually the replica opened its hand and let the limp body fall.
Albanus hastened to bend over the King. Savage bruises empurpled his neck, and another darkened his cheek, though Albanus did not remember seeing the simulacrum strike. But the broad chest rose and fell, if faintly. Garian yet lived.
Vegentius, who had stood staring, sword half drawn, since the instant the duplicate moved, now slammed his blade home in its scabbard and cleared his throat. His eyes never left the simulacrum. “Should you not let him, it, kill him now?”