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

“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.”