Conan the Triumphant

  “Are not my holdings subject to bandit attacks as others are, now that the army keeps to the cities? Besides,” she added with a smouldering look at the Cimmerian, “I like his shoulders.” Her voice hardened. “Or do you try to deny me even the right to take men-at-arms in service?”

  “Women who need men-at-arms,” Antimides replied hotly, “should make alliance with a man who can provide them.”

  “Why, so I have,” she said, her mercurial mood becoming all gaiety. “Come with me, Conan. We have done here.”

  Conan followed as she moved from the chamber, leaving a fuming Antimides on his wooden throne.

  In the corridor she turned suddenly, her mouth open to speak. Conan, caught by surprise, almost walked into her. For a moment she stood, words forgotten and dark eyes wide, staring up at him. “Never have I seen such a man,” she whispered then, as if to herself. “Could you be the one to … .” Her words trailed off, but she still stood gazing at him as if in a trance.

  A woman-wise smile appeared on Conan’s face. He had not been sure if her flirting in the other room had been for his benefit or Antimides, but of this he had no doubt. Lifting her into his arms, he kissed her. She returned his kiss with fiery lips, cupping his face with both hands, straining her body to him.

  Abruptly she pulled back, horror filling her eyes; her hand cracked against his face. “Loose me!” she cried. “You forget yourself!”

  Confused, he set her feet back on the floor. She took two quick steps back from him, one trembling hand to her lips.

  “Your pardon, my lady,” he said slowly. Did the woman play a game with him?

  “I will not have it,” she breathed unsteadily. “I will not.” Slowly her composure returned, and when she went on her voice was as cold as it had ever been for Antimides. “I will forget what just happened, and I advise you to do the same. I have a house on the Street of Crowns where you may quarter your company. There are stables behind for your horses. Ask for it, and you will be directed. Go there, and await my instructions. And forget, barbarian, as you value your life.”

  Did women ever know their own minds, Conan wondered as he watched her stiff back recede down the corridor. How then did they expect men to know them? His consternation could not last long, however. Once more he had managed to save his company. For a time, at least, and that was all a man could ask. All that was left was to convince them there was no disgrace in taking service with a woman. Thinking on that he set about finding his way out of the palace.

  8

  The massive walls and great outer towers of the royal palace had stood for centuries unchanged, but the interior had altered with every dynasty till it was a warren of corridors and gardens. Soon Conan felt he had visited all of them without making his way to the barbican gate.

  Servants rushing through the halls on their duties would not even pause at question from the young barbarian in well-used armor. They were nearly as arrogant as the nobles who lounged in the fountained courts, and inquiries made to richly-clad folk got him little from the haughty men except gibes that brought him close to drawing his sword a time or two. The sleek, languorous women gave inviting smiles and even offers as open as those of any trull on the streets. Such might have appealed had he not been in haste to return to the Free-Company, but even they had only amusement for his ignorance of the palace, tinkling laughter and directions that, followed, sent him in circles.

  Conan stepped into yet another courtyard, and found he was staring at King Valdric himself, trailing his retinue as he crossed the greenstone tiles. The King looked worse than Narus, the young Cimmerian thought. Valdric’s gold-embroidered state robes hung loosely on a shrunken body that had once weighed half again as much as it did now, and he used the tall, gemencrusted scepter of Ophir as a walking staff. His golden crown, thickly set with emeralds and rubies from the mines on the Nemedian border, sat low on his brow; and his eyes, sunken deep in a hollow-cheeked face, held a feverish light.

  The retinue consisted mainly of men with the full beards of scholars, leavened with a sprinkling of nobles in colorful silks and soldiers of rank in gilded armor, crested helms beneath their arms. The bearded men held forth continuously, competing loudly for Valdric’s ear as the procession made its slow way across the courtyard.

  “The stars will be favorable this night for an invocation to Mitra,” one cried.

  “You must be bled, your majesty,” another shouted. “I have a new shipment of leeches from the marshes of Argos.”

  “This new spell will surely cast the last of the demons from you,” a third contributed.

  “’Tis time for your cupping, my King.”

  “This potion … .”

  “The balance of fluxes and humors … .”

  Conan made an awkward bow, though none of them seemed to notice him. Kings, he knew, were particular about such things.

  When he straightened, King and retinue had gone; but one, a white-haired soldier, had stayed behind and was looking at him. Conan knew him immediately, though he had never met the man. Iskandrian, the White Eagle of Ophir, the general who kept the army aloof from the struggle to succeed Valdric. Despite his age and white hairs, the general’s leathery face was as hard as the walls of the palace, his bushy-browed gray eyes clear and sharp. The calloused hand that rested on his sword hilt was strong and steady.

  “You’re the one who brought the girl to Antimides,” the white-haired general said abruptly. “What is your name?”

  “Conan of Cimmeria.”

  “Mercenary,” Iskandrian said drily. His attitude toward mercenaries was well known. To his mind no foreign warrior should tread the soil of Ophir, not even if he was in service to an Ophirean. “I’ve heard of you. That fat fool Timeon’s man, are you not?”

  “I am no one’s man but my own,” Conan said hotly. “My company did follow Baron Timeon, but we have lately taken the Lady Synelle’s colors.” At least, they would once he drummed the fact into their heads.

  Iskandrian whistled between his teeth. “Then, mercenary, you have gotten yourself a problem along with your lady patron. You’ve a set of shoulders like an ox, and I suppose women account you handsome. ’Twill light a fire in Taramenon’s head to have a man like you near Synelle.”

  “Taramenon?” Conan remembered Antimides mentioning that name as well. The count had implied this Taramenon had some interest in Synelle, or she in him.

  “He is the finest swordsman in Ophir,” Iskandrian said. “Best sharpen your blade and pray to your gods for luck.”

  “A man makes his own luck,” Conan said. “and my sword is always sharp.”

  “A good belief for a mercenary,” Iskandrian laughed. “Or a soldier.” A frown quickly replaced his mirth. “Why are you in this part of the palace, barbarian? You are far from the path from Antimides’ chambers to the gate.”

  Conan hesitated, then shrugged ruefully. “I am lost,” he admitted, and the general laughed again.

  “That does not sound like what I’ve heard of you. But I’ll get you a guide.” With a wave of his hand he summoned a servant, who bowed low before Iskandrian and ignored Conan. “Take this man to the barbican gate,” the general commanded.

  “My thanks,” the Cimmerian told him. “Yours are the first words I have heard in some time that were neither mocking nor lies.”

  Iskandrian eyed him sharply. “Make no mistake, Conan of Cimmeria. You have a reputation for daring and tactical sense, and were you Ophirean, I’d make you one of my officers. But you are a mercenary, and an outlander. Do I have my way, the day will come when you’ll leave Ophir with all the haste you can muster or have your ashes scattered here.” With that he stalked away.

  By the time Conan got back to Timeon’s palace, he was uncertain if he had ever had so many opposed to him before. Iskandrian seemed to like him personally, and would see him dead given the chance. Antimides hated him to the bone, and without doubt would like to put him on his funeral fires whether he went to them alive or dead. Synelle he was
unsure of; what she said she wanted and what her body said she wanted were opposites, and a man could be shaved at the shoulders for involving himself with such a one as that. Karela claimed that she desired him dead, for all she had not taken the opportunity granted her, and she had a knack of making her desires come true that would make a statue sweat in the circumstances. Then there was the thrice-accursed horned figure. Had the second group of attackers been after it, as those first two had been? If they were, he could wager good coin on future attempts, though he still had no clue as to why.

  Of course, he could rid himself of the threat of attack by ridding himself of the bronze, but that smacked too much of fright to suit him. Let him but discover why it was worth killing and dying for, and he would willingly shed himself of it, but it was not his way to run from trouble. The Cimmerian almost laughed when he realized that the murder of Timeon was the only trouble to come his way of late that had been resolved.

  The guards on the white-columned portico looked at him expectantly, and he put on a smile for their benefit. “All is well,” he told them. “We have a patron, and gold to tempt the wenches.”

  He left them slapping each other’s back in relieved laughter, but once he was inside his own smile disappeared. Did they know half of what faced them, they would likely throw down their bows on the spot and desert.

  “Machaon!” he called, the name echoing in the high-ceilinged entry hall.

  Narus, on the balcony above, shouted down. “He’s in the garden. How went matters with Antimides?”

  “Assemble the men here,” Conan told him, hurrying on.

  The tattooed veteran was in the garden as Narus had said, on a bench with a girl, his arms wrapped around her and hers around him. Trust Machaon, the Cimmerian thought with a chuckle, even when waiting to see if they must flee the country. It was about time he found something for merriment in the day.

  “Leave her be,” he said jovially. “There’ll be time for wenches lat—” He broke off as the girl leaped to her feet. It was Julia, cheeks scarlet and breasts heaving.

  Clutching her skirts with both hands she looked helplessly at him, turned suddenly tearfilled eyes on Machaon, then ran wailing past the Cimmerian into the palace.

  Machaon flung up his hands as Conan rounded on him angrily. “Hear me out before you speak, Cimmerian. She came about me, teasing, and taunted me about kissing her. And she did not try to run when I did it, either.”

  Conan scowled. He had saved her from a life as a trull, given her honest employment, for this? “She’s no camp-follower, Machaon. If you want her, then court her. Don’t grab her like a doxy in a tavern.”

  “Mitra’s mercies, man! Court her? You speak as if she were your sister. Zandru’s Hells, I’ve never taken a woman against her will in my life.”

  The young Cimmerian opened his mouth for an angry retort, and found that none came. If Julia wanted to be a woman fully-fledged, who was he to say her nay? And Machaon was certainly experienced enough to make her enjoy her learning.

  “I’m trying to protect someone who apparently doesn’t want it any more, Machaon,” he said slowly. His reason for seeking out the grizzled man returned to him. “Events have turned as I said they would. We have our patron.” Machaon barked a laugh and shook a fist over his head in triumph. “Narus is bringing some of the men to the entry hall. You fetch the rest, and I’ll tell the company.”

  The wide, tapestry-hung hall filled rapidly, threescore men—less the guards posted, for there was no reason to be foolish—crowding it from wall to wall. All looking expectantly to him, Conan thought as he watched them from a perch on the curving marble stair. Boros was among them, he saw, but after the gray-bearded man had ferreted out Tivia for him, he was willing to let him remain. So long as he remained sober and stayed away from magic, at least.

  “The company has a new patron,” he announced, and the hall exploded in cheers. He waited for the tumult to subside, then added, “Our payment is twice what we were getting.” After all, he thought while they renewed their shouts of glee, Synelle had offered to double Antimides’ best offer; why would she not do the same for Timeon’s? “Listen to me,” he called to them. “Quiet, and listen to me. We’ll be quartering in a house on the Street of Crowns. We leave here within the hour.”

  “But whom do we serve?” Taurianus shouted. Others took up the cry.

  Conan drew a deep breath. “The Lady Synelle.” Flat silence greeted his words.

  At last Taurianus muttered disgustedly, “You’d have us serve a woman?”

  “Aye, a woman,” the Cimmerian answered. “Will her gold buy less when you clink it on the table in a tavern? And how many of you have worried as to how we’d fare if, when someone does succeed Valdric, it turned out we followed the wrong side? We’ll be out of that. A woman cannot succeed to the throne. There’ll be naught to do but guard her holdings from bandits and spend her gold.”

  “Twice as much gold?” Taurianus said.

  “Twice as much.” He had them, now. He could see it in their faces. “Get your belongings together quickly. And no looting! Timeon has heirs somewhere. I want none of you rogues hauled before the justices for theft.”

  Laughing again, the company began to disperse, and Conan dropped to a seat on the stair. At times it seemed as much of a battle to hold the company together as to fight any of the foes they had been called on to face.

  “You handled that as well as any king,” Boros said, creakily climbing the stairs.

  “Of kings I know little,” Conan told him. “All I know are steel and battle.”

  The gray-bearded man chuckled drily. “How do you think kings get to be kings, my young friend?”

  “I neither know nor care,” the Cimmerian replied. “All I want is to keep my company together. That and no more.”

  Sweat glistened on the body of the naked woman stretched taut on the rack, reflecting the flames of charcoal-filled iron cressets of the damp-streaked stone walls of the royal palace dungeon. Nearby, the handles of irons thrust from a brazier of glowing coals, ready in case they were called for. From the way she babbled her tale, punctuating it periodically with screams as the shaven-headed torturer encouraged her with a scourge, they would not be needed.

  She had taken money to poison Timeon, but she did not know the man who paid her. He was masked. She became frightened when the first dose of poison showed no effect on the baron, and had placed all she had been given in his wine at once. Before all the gods, she did not know who had paid her.

  Antimides listened quietly as the torturer did his work. It amazed him how the struggle for even a chance at life could continue when the person involved had to know there was no hope of it. Time and again, with men and women alike, had he seen it. As soon as he had spoken and seen the expression on Tivia’s face, he was aware that she recognized his voice, that she knew him for the man behind the black silk mask. Yet even with the rack and the whip she denied, praying that he would spare her if he thought his secret was safe.

  It was odd, too, how dangers suddenly multiplied just when he was in sight of his goal. Had the girl administered the poison in daily doses as directed the finest physician would have said Timeon died of natural causes, and he would have been free of a fool who drank too much and talked too freely when drunk. Then there was the barbarian with the outlandish name, bringing her to him, drawing attention to him when he least wanted it. No doubt that could be laid to Timeon’s tongue. But what were the chances the man would fail to tell Synelle what he knew or suspected?

  He, Antimides, had been the first to learn of Valdric’s illness, the first to prepare to take the throne at his death, and all, he was certain, without being suspected by anyone. While the others fought in the countryside, he remained in Ianthe. When Valdric finally died, they who thought to take the throne, those few who managed to survive his assassins, would find that he held the royal palace. And he who held the royal palace held the throne of Ophir. Now all of his careful plans were endangered, his
secrecy threatened.

  Something would have to be done about Synelle. He had always had plans for that sharptongued jade. Prating about her bloodlines. Of what use were bloodlines in a wench, except with regard to the children she could produce? He had planned to take great pleasure in breaking her to heel, and in using those bloodlines she boasted of to make heirs with an even stronger claim to the throne than himself. But now she had to be done away with, and quickly. And the barbarian as well.

  He perked an ear toward Tivia. She was repeating herself. “Enough, Raga,” he said, and the shaven-headed man desisted. Antimides pressed a gold coin into the fellow’s thick-thingered hand. Raga was bought long since, but it never hurt to ensure loyalties. “She’s yours,” Antimides told the man. Raga beamed a gap-toothed smile. “When you are done, dispose of her in the usual fashion.”

  As the count let himself out of the dungeon Tivia’s shrieks were rising afresh. Lost in his planning for Synelle and the barbarian, Antimides did not hear.

  9

  The house on the Street of Crowns was a large square, two stories high, around a dusty central court, with the bottom floor of the two sides being given over to stables. A woodenroofed balcony, reached by stairs weakened from long neglect, ran around the courtyard on the second level. Dirty red roof tiles gleamed dully in the late afternoon sun; flaking plaster on the stone walls combined with shadows to give the structure a leprous appearance. An arched gate, its hinges squealing with rust, led from the street to the courtyard, where a dusty fountain was filled with withered brown leaves.

  “Complete with rats and fleas, no doubt,” Narus said dolefully as he dismounted.

  Taurianus sat his horse and glared about him. “For this we left a palace?” A flurry of doves burst from an upper window. “See! We’re expected to sleep in a roost!”

  “You’ve all grown too used to the soft life in a palace,” Conan growled before the mutters could spread. “Stop complaining like a herd of old women, and remember the times you’ve slept in the mud.”