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

“Keep your silence, wench,” Karela commanded. “Close the door and answer my questions quickly, and you’ll come to no harm.”

“Wench!” the girl said, her eyes flashing indignantly. “What are you doing here … wench? I think I’ll let you see if you like Fabio’s switch. Then you can answer questions for me.”

“I told you,” Karela began, but the girl was already turning back to the door. With a curse the woman bandit jumped across the room and grappled with her, managing to kick the door shut as she did.

She expected the girl to surrender, or try to scream for help at most, but with a sqawl of rage the other woman buried her hands in Karela’s red hair. The two women fell to the floor in a kicking, nail-clawing heap.

Derketo, Karela thought, she did not want to kill the jade, but she had defended herself too long with a sword to remember well this womanfighting. She almost screamed as the other sank teeth into her shoulder; handfuls of her hair were at the point of being ripped from her head. Desperately she slammed a knee into the girl’s belly. Breath left the other woman in a gasp, and Karela wriggled forward to kneel on her arms. Her dagger slipped into her hand, and she held it before the girl’s face.

“Now be silent, Derketo take you!” she panted. The girl glared up at her defiantly, but held her tongue.

Abruptly Karela realized what was familiar about the girl. The eyes were different, but the color of her hair, the shape of her face. Conan had found himself an imitation of herself. She could not think whether to laugh, or cry, or slit the wench’s throat. Or wait for the Cimmerian and slit his. No interest, she told herself again. No interest at all.

“What is your name?” she grated. That would never do. She made an effort to sound more friendly, if that was possible while brandishing a dagger in the wench’s face. “What’s your name, girl? I like to know who I’m talking to.”

The woman beneath her hesitated, then said, “Julia. And that is all you will get from me.”

Karela dressed her face with a smile. “Julia, Conan has a bronze figure that I must have, a filthy thing with horns. An you’ve seen it, you’ll not have forgotten. No woman could. Tell me where it is, and I’ll leave you unharmed when I go.”

“I’ll tell you nothing!” Julia spat. But her eyes had flickered to a corner of the room.

There was nothing there at all that Karela could see. Still … . “Very well, Julia, I must search without your help then. But I’ll have to bind you. Now hear my warning well. Do you try to fight or flee, either one, this,” she gestured with her blade, “will find a home in your heart. Do you understand?”

Julia’s face was still filled with fury, but she nodded, albeit with obvious reluctance.

Carefully Karela cut away Julia’s robe. The girl flinched, but otherwise did not change her hatefilled expression. As Karela was slicing strips from the robe with her dagger she could not help noticing her naked prisoner’s body. The Cimmerian always had had a liking for full-breasted women, she thought sourly. But hers were better. That was, if she had still been interested in him in that way, which she was not.

“Roll over,” she commanded, nudging Julia with her foot. When the girl obeyed, Karela swiftly tied her hands and feet. The wench groaned through clenched teeth as she pulled the bindings together in the small of the naked woman’s back, but the threat of the dagger was enough to keep the protest muted. Not comfortable, Karela thought savagely, but then the girl had not truly answered her question. A wadding of cloth fastened with another strip of cloth did her a gag, but before Karela left she lifted Julia’s face by a handful of hair. “Conan likes round bottoms,” she said with a biting smile. “You have a bottom like a boy.”

Julia jerked wildly at her bonds and made angry sounds behind her gag, but Karela was already studying the corner the girl’s eyes had indicated. There was nothing there. Neither crack in the plaster nor new work gave sign that anything had been hidden behind the wall, and no opening in the fly-specked ceiling … . A board sagged beneath her foot, and she smiled.

Swiftly she knelt and levered up the floorboard with her dagger. The malevolent bronze lay beneath, nestled in decades of dirt and rat droppings. Fitting, she thought. She reached for the horned figure, but her fingers stopped, quivering, a handsbreadth away. She could not bring herself to touch it. The evil she had felt before still radiated from it, twisting her stomach. Contact with it would surely have her wretching. Hastily she fetched a blanket from the bed, folded it around the bronze, and gathered it up like a sack, holding the weighty burden well away from her. Even so she could

sense the abomination of the thing, but so long as she did not have to look at it she could stand carrying it.

At the window she paused. “Thank Conan for me,” she told the struggling girl. “Tell him I thank him for five hundred pieces of gold.”

With that she dropped through the window and scampered down the boxes. In the alley she hid the blanket-wrapped figure inside a box on the cart. And the relief it was to get rid of it, she thought, even after so brief a contact.

“We’ll meet in one turn of the glass,” she told the mustached Zamoran, “at the Carellan Stables.”

As she slipped back into the crowded street, the hood of her cloak once more shielding her face, she glanced regretfully at the sun. Too late today to post a man before the royal palace. On the morrow, though, the signal would be sent, and by nightfall she would have her five hundred pieces of gold. She wished fervently that she could see the Cimmerian’s face when he learned how much he had lost.

15

Silvery hair and slit robe alike flowing behind her, Synelle raced through the wide corridors of her great house, heedless of the horrified cries of servants and slaves at her dusty dishevelment, unhearing of their pleas after her welfare and concern for her precipitate return. Conan had left ten of his archers, now standing watch at the entrances, to protect her, then rode off before she could stop him. To deal with Count Antimides, one of those left behind had told her. But she would not wait for him to deal with the Mitraaccursed wretch. Antimides had struck at her—at her!—and his destruction, utter and complete, was her right and hers alone. The means of it must be exquisite, so that when the truth of it could at last be proclaimed to the world the expunging of that excresence would be told and retold for centuries. His desire for the crown and and chains he had meant to emprison her in, that was it.

From a wall she snatched a mirror of silvered glass. With that under her arm, she swept into her secret chamber. From amidst the scintillant flasks and seething beakers of vile substances she took a vial of Antimides’ blood. He had been a useful, if unknowing, tool until now, adding to the confusion and weakening those she would eventually have to cow, but always had she been aware that he might become dangerous to her. That blood had been obtained from an ensorceled serving girl, one who often shared Antimides’ bed and passed on to Synelle, for the bewitchment that held her, all she learned of the great lord’s plans, and kept against just such a day as this. Necromantic spells that could hold a corpse incorruptible for a thousand years kept it liquid.

With great care she sketched the crown of Ophir on the mirror in the count’s blood. Below that she drew a sanguine chain.

“See yourself with the crown you seek upon your head, Antimides,” she whispered. “But only for a time. A brief, painful time.” Laughing cruelly, she bent back to her dark work.

“We attract attention,” Machaon announced to no one in particular.

The file of nineteen armored horsemen in spiked helms with round shields slung on the arms, led by Conan, made its way slowly through the streets of Ianthe, and the crowds who parted before them did indeed stare. Deadly intensity hung about them like a cloud, stunning even those who would have looked away, numbing their reticence to see.

“There will be trouble for this,” Narus said dolefully. He rode next in line behind Machaon. “Even can we slay Antimides—and the gods alone know how many guards he has—Iskandrian will not look the other way for our killing of a noble within the very walls of the capital. We shall have to flee Ophir, if we can.”