Conan the Unconquered (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 3)

The hook-nosed man had lain with his mouth open, listening while Bayan talked. Now he snorted. “Only a dirt-eater would think so. Once this storm is gone, give me half a day for repairs and I’ll sail her anywhere on the Vilayet, in any weather.”

“The repairs you need, you’ll make at sea,” Conan said levelly. “And we sail as soon as the storm abates enough for us to get off this beach without being smashed to splinters.” The captain opened his mouth, and Conan laid his blade against the seaman’s throat. “Or mayhap one of these other three would like to be captain.”

The captain’s eyes bulged, and his mouth worked. Finally he said, “I’ll do it. ’is likely we’ll all of us drown, but I’ll do it.”

Conan nodded. He had expected no other decision. Yasbet was being carried closer to Jhandar by the moment. The storm drumming against the hull seemed to echo the sorcerer’s name. Jhandar. This time they would meet face to face, he and Jhandar, and one of them would die. One or both. Jhandar.

XXIII

Jhandar, lounging on cushions of multicolored silk spread beside a fountain within a walled garden, watched Davinia exclaiming over his latest gifts to her, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. Three days more and, as matters stood, all his plans would come to naught. Could the wench not sense the worry in him?

“They are beautiful,” Davinia said, stretching arms encircled by emerald bracelets above her head. Another time he would have felt sweat popping out on his forehead. Her brief, golden silks left the inner slopes of her rounded breasts bare, and her girdle, two fingerwidths of sapphires and garnets hung with the bright feathers of rare tropic birds, sat low on the swelling of her hips. Sulty eyes caressed him. “I will have to think of a way to show my gratitude,” she purred.

He acknowledged her only with a casual wave of his hand. In three days Yildiz, that fat fool, would meet with his advisors to decide where to use the army he had built. Of the Seventeen Attendants, eight would speak for empire, for war with Zamora. Only eight, and Jhandar knew that Yildiz merely counted the number of those who supported or opposed, rather than actually weighing the advice given. Jhandar needed one more to speak for war. One of the nine other. Who could have believed the nine lived lives which, if not completely blameless, still gave him no lever to use against them? One more he needed, yet all the nine would speak for peace, for reducing the numbers of the army. Short of gaining Yildiz’s own ear, he had done all that could be done, yet three days would see a year’s work undone.

It would take even longer to repair matters. He must first arrange the assassination of an Attendant, perhaps more than one if his efforts to guide the selection of the new Attendant failed. Then it would take time to build the army again. If things were otherwise, three days could see the beginnings of an empire that would be his in all but name. Kings would journey to him, kneel at his feet to hear his commands. Instead, he would have to begin again, wait even longer for that he had awaited so long.

And that wait added another risk. What had the man Conan sought in Hyrkania? What had he found that might be used against the Power? Why did Che Fan not return with the barbarian’s head in a basket?

“You will let me have them, Jhandar?”

“Of course,” he said absently, then pulled himself from his grim ruminations. “Have what?”

“The slaves.” There was petulance in Davinia’s voice, a thing he had noticed more often of late. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“Certainly I’ve been listening. But tell me about these slaves again.”

“Four of them,” she said, moving to stand straddle-legged beside him. Now he could feel sweat on his face. Sunlight surrounded her with a nimbus, a woman of golden silk, glowing hot. “Well-muscled young men, of course,” she went on. “Two of blackest hue, and two as pale as snow. The one pair I will dress in pearls and rubies, the other in onyx and emeralds. They will be as a frame for me. To make me more beautiful for you,” she added hastily.

“What need have you for slave boys?” he growled. “You have slaves in plenty to do your bidding. And that old hag, Renda, to whom you spend so much time whispering.”

“Why, to bear my palanquin,” she laughed, tinkling musical notes. Fluidly she sank to her knees, bending till her breasts pressed against his chest. Her lips brushed the line of his jaw. “Surely my Great Lord would not deny my bearers. My Great Lord, who it is my greatest pleasure to serve. In every way.”

“I can deny you nothing,” he said thickly. “You may have the slaves.”

In her eyes he caught a fleeting glimpse of greed satisfied, and the moment soured for him. She would leave him did she ever find one who could give her more. He meant to be sure there could never be such a one, but still … . He could bind her to him with the golden bowl and her heart’s blood. None who saw or talked with her would ever know she did not in truth live. But he would know.

Someone cleared his throat diffidently. Scowling, Jhandar sat up. Zephran stood on the marble path, bowing deeply over folded hands, eyes carefully averted from Davinia.

“What is it?” Jhandar demanded angrily.

“Suitai is returned, Great Lord,” his shaven-headed myrmidion replied.

Instantly Jhandar’s anger was gone, along with his thoughts of Davinia. Careless of his dignity, he scrambled to his feet. “Lead,” he commanded. Dimly he noted that Davinia followed as well, but matters not of the flesh dominated his mind once more.

Suitai waited in Jhandar’s private audience chamber, its bronze lion lamps unlit at this hour. A large sack lay on the mosaicked floor at the Khitan’s feet.

“Where is Che Fan?” Jhandar demanded as he entered.

“Perished, Great Lord,” Suitai replied, and Jhandar hesitated in his stride.

Despite his knowledge to the contrary, Jhandar had begun to think in some corners of his mind that the two assassins were indestructible. It was difficult to imagine what could slay one of them.

“How?” he said shortly.

“The barbarian enlisted the aid of a Hyrkanian witch-woman, Great Lord. She, also, died.”

That smile meant that Suitai had been her killer, Jhandar thought briefly, without interest. “And the barbarian?”