Conan the Triumphant (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 4)

“Share some wine with me,” Conan said, motioning to a table nearby.

The girl stared at him directly, her big eyes going even wider, if such were possible, and shook her head.

He blinked in surprise. That innocent face might belie it, but if she wanted directness … . “If you don’t want wine, how does two silvers take you?”

The girl’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t … that is, I … I mean … .” Even stammering, her voice was a soprano like silver bells.

“Three silvers, then. A fourth if you prove worth it.” She still stared. Why was he wasting time with her, he wondered, when there were other wenches about? She reminded him of Karela, that was it. This girl’s hair was not so red, nor her cheekbones so high, but she recalled to him the woman bandit who had shared his bed—and managed to disrupt his life—every time their paths had crossed. Karela was a woman fit for any man, fit for a King. But what use raking up old memories? “Girl,” he said gruffly, “if you don’t want my silver, say so, and I’ll take my custom elsewhere.”

“Stay,” she gasped. It was an obvious effort for her to get the word out.

“Innkeeper,” Conan bellowed, “a room!” The wench’s face went scarlet beneath the rouge on her cheeks.

The spidery tapster appeared on the instant, a lo

ng hand extended for coin. “Four coppers,” he growled, and waited until Conan had dropped them into his palm before adding, “Top of the stairs, to the right.”

Conan caught the furiously blushing girl by the arm and drew her up the creaking wooden stairs after him.

The room was what he had expected, a small box with dust on the floor and cobwebs in the corners. A sagging bed with a husk-filled mattress and none-too-clean blankets, a three-legged stool, and a rickety table were all the furnishings. But then, what he was there for went as well in a barn as in a palace, and often better.

Dropping the sack on the floor with a thump, he kicked the door shut and put his hands on the girl’s shoulders. As he drew her to him he peeled her silken robes from her shoulders to her waist. Her breasts were full, but upstanding, and pinknippled. She yelped once before his mouth descended on hers, then went stiff in his arms. He could as well have been kissing a statue.

He drew back, but held her still in the circle of his arms. “What sort of doxy are you?” he demanded. “A man would think you’d never kissed a man before.”

“I haven’t,” she snapped, then began to stammer. “That is, I have. I’ve kissed many men. More than you can count. I am very … experienced.” She bared her teeth in what Conan suspected was meant to be an inviting smile; it was more a fearful rictus.

He snorted derisively and pushed her out to arms’ length. Her hands twitched toward her disarrayed garments, then were still. Heavy breathing made her breasts rise and fall in interesting fashion, and her face slowly colored again. “You don’t talk like a farm wench,” he said finally. “What are you? Some merchant’s runaway daughter without sense enough to go home?”

Her face became a frozen mask of arrogant pride. “You, barbarian, will have the honor of taking a noblewoman of Ophir to … to your bed.” Even the stumble did not crack her haughty demeanor.

Taken together with her manner of dress—or undress, rather—it was too much for the Cimmerian. He threw back his head and bellowed his laughter at the fly-specked ceiling.

“You laugh at me?” she gasped. “You dare?”

“Cover yourself,” he snapped back at her, his mirth fading. Anger sprouted from stifled desires; she was a tasty bit, and he had been looking forward to the enjoyment of her. But a virgin girl running away from a noble father was the last thing he needed, or wanted any part of. Nor could he walk away from her if she needed help, either. That thought came reluctantly. Softhearted, he grumbled to himself. That was his trouble. To the girl he growled, “Do it, before I take my belt to your backside.”

For a moment she glared at him, sky-blue eyes warring with icy sapphire. Ice won, and she hastily fumbled her green robes back into place, muttering under her breath.

“Your name,” he demanded. “And no lies, or I’ll pack you to the Marline Cloisters myself. Besides the hungry and the sick, they take in wayward girls and unruly children, and you look to be both.”

“You have no right. I’ve changed my mind. I do not want your silver.” She gestured imperiously. “Stand away from that door.”

Conan gazed back at her calmly, not moving. “You are but a few words away from a stern-faced woman with a switch to teach you manners and proper behavior. Your name?”

Her eyes darted angrily to the door. “I am the Lady Julia,” she said stiffly. “I will not shame my house by naming it in this place, not if you torture me with red-hot irons. Not if you use pincers, and the knout, and … and … .”

“Why are you here, Julia, masquerading as a trull, instead of doing needlework at your mother’s knee?”

“What right have you to demand … ? Erlik take you! My mother is long dead, and my father these three months. His estates were pledged for loans and were seized in payment. I had no relations to take me in, nor friends who had use for a girl with no more than the clothes on her back. And you will call me Lady Julia. I am still a noblewoman of Ophir.”

“You’re a silly wench,” he retorted. “And why this? Why not become a serving girl? Or a beggar, even?”

Julia sniffed haughtily. “I would not sink so low. My blood—”

“So you become a trull?” He noted she had the grace to blush. But then, she did that often.

“I thought,” she began hesitantly, then stopped. When she resumed her voice had dropped to a murmur. “It seemed not so different from my father’s lemans, and they appeared to be ladies.” Her eyes searched his face, and she went on urgently. “But I’ve done nothing. I am still … I mean … Oh, why am I telling any of this to you?”