The door opened, and Karela was on her feet, tulwar in hand, before she realized it. She looked in consternation at the girl who entered, head down, not looking at her, with a tall, wooden-handled silver pitcher on a tray. Why was she so jumpy, she thought, resheathing the curved blade. “I’m sorry, girl. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Hot water, mistress,” the girl said in a toneless voice, “for your morning ablutions.” Still without raising her eyes she set the tray on the table and turned to go. She seemed unaffected by being greeted with a sword.
“A minute,” Karela said. The girl stopped. “Has anyone come asking for me at the portcullis? Hordo? A bearded man with an eye-patch?”
“Such a man was taken to the dungeons, mistress, this night past.”
“The dungeons!” Karela yelped. “By the tits of Derketo, why?”
“It was said, mistress, that he was discovered attempting to free the man Conan, and also that he had many golden ornaments in a sack.”
The red-haired woman drew a shuddering breath. She should have expected something of the kind, should have guarded against it. Hordo and Conan had become close-sword-brothers, the hillmen called it-and men, never truly sane in her opinion, were at their maddest in such relationships. Still, for her most loyal hound, she must do something.
“Where is your master, girl?”
“I do not know, mistress.”
Karela frowned. There had been a slight hesitation before that answer. “Then show me to the dungeons. I want to speak to Hordo.”
“Mistress, I … I cannot … my master … .” The girl stood staring at the floor.
Karela grabbed the girl’s chin, twisting her face up. “Look at me … .”
Her breath caught in her throat. The girl might have been called beautiful, except that there was no single line of expression or emotion on her face. And her brown eyes were … empty was the only word Karela could think of. She pulled her hand away, and had to resist the desire to wipe it on something. The girl dropped her eyes again immediately on being released. She had made no slightest resistance then, and she stood waiting now.
“Girl,” Karela said, making her tone threatening, “I am here, and your master is elsewhere. Now show me to the dungeons!”
The girl nodded hesitantly, and led the way from the room.
She had been on the topmost level of the keep, Karela discovered as they took curving marble stairs, seeming to hang suspended in air, down to the ground floor. In a small side corridor the girl stopped before a plain stone archway that led onto rough stone steps. She had not raised her eyes in the entire journey, and Karela did not really want her to.
“There, mistress,” the girl said. “Down there. I am not permitted to descend.”
Karela nodded. “Very well, girl. If trouble comes of this for you, I’ll intercede with your master.”
“The master will do as he will do,” the girl replied in her toneless voice. Before Karela could speak again, she had scurried away and was gone around a corner.
Taking a deep breath, and with a firm grip on her sword, the red-haired bandit descended the stairs until she came to an iron-strapped door. On this she pounded with her sword hilt.
The door was opened by a huge, fat man in a stained yellow tunic. She presented her blade to his face before he could speak. At least this one did not stare at the ground, she thought, though perhaps he should to hide his face.
“The
man Hordo,” she said. “Take me to where he is confined.”
“But Amanar,” the fat man began. Her sword point indented his neck, and his piggy eyes bulged. “I’ll take you to him,” he stammered in a high-pitched voice, and added, “Mistress.”
Blade against his backbone, she followed him down the crudely cut corridor. He fumbled with the keys at his belt, and unlocked one of the solid wooden doors.
“Over there,” she ordered, gesturing with her sword. “Where I can see you. And do you move, I’ll make a capon of you, if you’re not one already.”
Anger twisted his suety face, but he moved as she directed. She pulled open the door and stared at the three men inside. Conan, Hordo, and one who looked vaguely familiar to her. All three looked up as the door swung open.
“You came!” Hordo cried. “I knew you would!”
Her green eyes rested on the broad-shouldered Cimmerian. His gaze, like twinned blue agates, regarded her impassively. She was relieved to see he still lived, and angry that she was relieved. The hard planes of his unlined face were handsome, it was true, and he was virile—her cheeks colored—but he was a fool. Why did he have to oppose Amanar? Why could he not forget that girl, Velita? Why?
“Why?” she said, and immediately pulled her gaze to Hordo. “Why did you do it, Hordo?”