Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2)

“I mean to see her this day,” Hordo replied. He stared at the gate thoughtfully. “’Tis odd he sent no message to his friends that he is well.”

“Not so odd as a lord with broken nails and work-calloused hands,” the Cimmerian said.

“A swordsman—”

“No, Hordo. I know work-wrought calluses when I see them. Still, ’tis none of our concern. Vegentius is, and this very night I mean to have private conversation with the good Commander.” Grimly he rode from the gate, the others galloping in two columns behind.

Albanus thrust the plump man, now dressed in nought but a filthy breechclout, to his knees, face to the marble floor.

“Well, Varius?” Albanus demanded of his chamberlain, his cruel face dark with impatience. He snatched the parchment, crumpled it in his fist. “Did he seem suspicious? Did he accept this dog as me?” He prodded the kneeling man with his foot. “Did he think you a lord, dog? What did he say?”

“He did, master.” The plump man’s voice was fearful, and he did not lift his face from the floor. “He asked only if I was Lord Albanus, then gave me the parchment and left.”

Albanus growled. The gods toyed with him, to send this man whose death he sought beneath his very roof, where he could not touch the barbarian, lest suspicion be drawn straight to him, and where he must hide to escape recognition. Beneath his own roof! And on this, the first day of his triumph. His eye fell on the kneeling man, who trembled.

“Could you not have found someone more presentable to represent me, Varius? That even a barbarian should take this slug for me offends me.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” the chamberlain said, bowing even more deeply in apology. “There was little time, and a need to find one who would fit the tunic.”

Albanus’ mouth curled. “Burn that tunic. I’ll not wear it again. And send this thing back to the kitchens. The sight of it disgusts me.”

Varius made a slight gesture; the kneeling man scurried from the room, hardly rising higher than a crouch. “Will that be all, my lord?”

“No. Find that drunken idiot Stephano, and hasten him to the workroom. But sober him, first.”

Albanus waved Varius from the room, and turned to the message from Garian. Curious as to what it could be, he split the seal.

Our Dear Lord Cantaro Albanus,

All honor to you. We summon you before the Dragon Throne that you may advise Us on matters near Our heart. As one who loves Us, and Nemedia, well, We know you will make haste.

GARIAN, NEMEDIA PRIMUS

A feral gleam lit Albanus’ black eyes as he wadded the parchment in clawed hands. “I will come to you soon enough,” he whispered. “My love I will show with chains and hot irons till on your knees you will acknowledge me King. Albanus, First in Nemedia. You will beg for death at my hand.”

Tossing the crumpled sheet aside, he strode to the workroom. The four guards before the door stiffened respectfully, but he swept past them without notice.

On the stone circle in the center of the room stood the clay figure of Garian, complete at last. Or almost, he thought, smiling. Perfect in every detail, just slightly larger than the living man—Stephano had made some quibble about that, saying it should be either exactly life size or of heroic proportions—it seemed to be striding forward, mouth open to utter some pronouncement. And it contained more of Garian than simply his looks. Arduously worked into that clay with complicated thaumaturgical rituals were Garian’s hair and parings from his fingernails, his sweat, his blood, and his seed. All had been obtained by Sularia at the dark lord’s command.

A huge kiln stood a short distance behind the stone platform, and a complicated series of wooden slides and levers designed to move the figure linked platform and kiln. Neither kiln nor slides were ever to be used, however. Albanus had allowed Stephano to construct them in order to allay the sculptor’s suspicions before they arose.

Climbing onto the platform, Albanus began pushing the wooden apparatus off onto the floor. Unaccustomed as he was to even the smallest labor, yet he must needs do this. Stephano would have had to be chivied to it, his questions turned aside with carefully constructed lies, and Albanus had long since tired of allowing the sculptor to believe that his questions were worth answering, his vanities worth dignifying. Better to do the work himself.

Tossing the last lever from the platform, Albanus jumped to the floor, one hand out to steady himself against the kiln. With an oath he jerked it back from the kiln’s rough surface. It was hot.

The door opened, and Stephano tottered in, green of face but much less under the sway of drink than he had been. “I want them all flogged,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “Do you know what your slaves did to me, with Varius giving the orders? They—”

“Fool!” Albanus thundered. “You fired the kiln! Have I not commanded you to do nothing here without my leave?”

“The figure is ready,” Stephano protested. “It must be put in the kiln today, or it will crack rather than harden. Last night I—”

“Did you not hear my command that you were never to handle fire within this room? Think you I light these lamps with my own hands for the joy of doing a slave’s work?”

“If the oils in that clay are so flammable,” the sculptor muttered sullenly, “how can it stand being placed—”

“Be silent.” The words were a soft hiss. Albanus’ obsidian gaze clove Stephano’s tongue to the roof of his mouth and rooted him to the spot as if it were a spike driven through him.

Disdainfully Albanus turned his back. Deftly he set out three small vials, a strip of parchment and a quill pen. Opening the first vial—it held a small quantity of Garian’s blood, with the admixture of tinctures to keep it liquid—he dipped the pen and neatly wrote the King’s name across the parchment. A sprinkling of powder from the second vial, and instantly the blood blackened and dried. The last container held Alban