rela rushing so as not to seem to be following. He smiled at her, and she bared her teeth in return.
“Welcome,” Amanar said. “Sit, please.” He sat in an ornately carved chair beside a low ebony table, fondling his golden staff. Two similar chairs were arranged on the other side of the table.
The music came from four human musicians sitting cross-legged on cushions against the wall. They played softly, without looking at one another or raising their eyes from the floor. A woman appeared from behind a curtain with a silver tray holding wine. Her gaze, too, never left the costly carpets that covered the floor as she set the tray on the table, bowed to Amanar, and scurried silently from the room. Amanar seemed not to notice her. His red-flecked eyes were on Karela.
“I didn’t know you had any human servants,” Conan said. He sat on the edge of his chair, careful to leave his sword free.
Amanar swung his gaze to the Cimmerian, and Conan found himself hard-pressed not to look away. The scarlet flecks in the man’s eyes tried to pull him into their inky depths. Conan gritted his teeth and stared back.
“Yes,” Amanar said, “I have a few. Worthless things, totally useless unless they’re under my eye. At times I have thought I might be better off if I simply gave them all to the hillmen.” He spoke loudly, not seeming to care whether the musicians heard, but they played on without missing a beat.
“Why don’t you use S’tarra servants, then?” Conan asked.
“They have limits. Yes, definite limits.” The man with the odd white streak through his hair suddenly rubbed his hands together. “But come. Let us drink.” No one moved to take one of the crystal goblets. “Do you yet distrust me?” There was a touch of mocking in his voice. “Then choose you any cup, and I will drink from it.”
“This is ridiculous,” Karela suddenly burst out, reaching for the wine.
Conan seized her wrist in an iron grip. “A sip from all three in turn,” he said quietly. Amanar shrugged.
“Release me,” Karela said quietly, but her words quivered with suppressed rage. Conan loosed his hold. For a moment she rubbed her wrist. “You’ve formed a bad habit of manhandling me,” she said, and reached again for a goblet.
Amanar forestalled her by snatching the crystal cup from under her very fingers. “As your friend still mistrusts … .” Swiftly he sipped from each of the three goblets. “You see,” he said as he set the last one back on the silver tray, “I do not die. Why should I bring you here to kill you, when I could have had the S’tarra bury you beneath boulders in the valley where we met?”
With an angry glare at Conan, Karela grabbed a goblet and drank, throwing her head back. Conan picked up another slowly, as Amanar took his. The fruity taste was a surprise. It was one of the heady wines of Aquilonia, costly so far from that western land.
“Besides,” Amanar said quietly, “why should I wish harm to Conan, the thief of Cimmeria, and Karela, the Red Hawk?”
A scream burst from Karela. Conan bounded to his feet with a roar, crystal cup falling to the carpet as he drew his broadsword. Amanar made no move except to sway toward Karela, standing with her jeweled tulwar in hand, her head turning wildly as if seeking attackers. The dark man’s heavy-lidded eyes half closed, and he inhaled deeply as if breathing in her perfume. The musicians played on unconcerned, eyes never lifting.
“Yes,” Amanar murmured, leaning back in his chair. He appeared surprised to see Conan’s sword. “Do you need that? There is only me, and I can hardly fight you with my staff.” He extended the staff to tap Conan’s blade. “Put it away and sit. You are in no danger.”
“I’ll stand,” Conan said grimly, “until a few questions are answered.”
“Conan was right,” Karela whispered. “You’re a sorcerer.”
Amanar spread his hands. “I am what some men call a sorcerer, yes. I prefer to think of myself as a seeker of wisdom, wanting to bring the world a better way.” He seemed pleased with that. “Yes. A better way.”
“What do you want with us?” she said, taking a firmer grip on her curved sword. “Why did you bring us here?”
“I have a proposal to make to you. Both of you.” The mage fingered his golden staff and smiled. Karela hesitated, then abruptly sheathed her blade and sat down.
“Before I put my sword up,” Conan said, “tell me this. You know our names. What else do you know?”
Amanar seemed to consider before answering. “Quite incidentally to discovering your names, I discovered that you seek five dancing girls and five pendants. Searching further told me these were stolen from the palace of King Tiridates of Zamora. Why you seek them, most particularly why you seek them in the Kezankian Mountains, I do not know, however.” His smile was bland, and Conan could see doubt spreading on Karela’s face.
So much had already been revealed that the Cimmerian decided it could do little further harm to reveal a trifle more. “We came because the women and the gems were taken by S’tarra.” He bridled at Amanar’s answering laugh.
“Forgive me, Conan of Cimmeria, but the mere thought that S‘tarra could enter Shadizar is ludicrous. The City Guard would kill them at sight, before they as much as reached the gates. Besides, my muscular friend, the S’tarra never leave the mountains. Never.”
Conan answered in a flat voice. “Those who entered Tiridates’ palace wore the boots the S’tarra wear, the boots worked with a serpent.”
Amanar’s laughter cut off abruptly, and his eyes lidded. Conan had the sudden impression of being regarded by a viper. “The boots,” the sorcerer said at last, “are often taken by hillmen when they strip the S’tarra they have killed. I should imagine a caravan guard who killed a hillman during an attack and found a good pair of boots on him might take them. Who can say how far a pair of those boots might travel, or how many might be worn outside the mountains?” His voice was reasonable in the extreme, if devoid of color, but his black eyes challenged Conan to reject the explanation if he dared. The only sound in the room came from the musicians.
Karela abruptly broke the impasse. “Hannuman’s stones, Conan. Would he have mentioned the gems in the first place if he had them?”
The young Cimmerian was suddenly aware of how foolish he must look. The musicians played their flutes and harps. Karela had retrieved her goblet from the carpet and poured more wine. Amanar sat with the long fingers of one hand casually caressing his golden staff. In the midst of this peaceful scene Conan stood sword in hand, balanced to fight on the instant.
“Crom!” he muttered, and slammed his blade into its sheath. He resumed his chair, ostentatiously sprawling back. “You spoke of a proposal, Amanar,” he said sharply.