“That is an old Khitan proverb. You have journeyed to my land?”
Ghurran shook his head. “No. I had it from the man who taught me herbs. Perhaps he went there, though he never spoke of it to me. Do you know much of herbs? I am always interested in discovering plants new to me, and the uses of them.”
“Regrettably, I do not,” the merchant replied. “And now, Patil, if I may rush matters unconscionably, I would speak of business.”
“Speak of what you will,” Conan said when he realized the other man was going to await permission.
“I thank you. I am a poor merchant, a dealer in whatever I can. On this trip, velvets from Corinthia, carpets from Iranistan, and tapestries from Turan. I joined the caravan but two days ago and would not have done so save for necessity. The captain of the vessel that brought me across the Vilayet Sea, a rogue called Valash, had promised to provide ten men as guards. After putting my goods and my animals ashore, however, he refused to honor his agreement. My nieces and I thus must try to tend half a score of camels with only the aid of three servants who, I fear, are of no use at all as protection against brigands.”
“I know of Valash,” Hordo said, spitting after the name. “ ’Tis Hanuman’s own luck he did not slit your throat and sell your goods—and your nieces—in Khawarism.”
“He attempted no such,” the Khitan said. “I was not aware that you were men of the sea.”
“We have all been many things in our time,” Conan replied. “At the moment we are men with swords who might be hired as guards if enough coin is offered.”
Kang Hou tilted his head as though considering. “I think,” he said at last, “that two silver coins for each man would be equitable. And a gold coin each if I and my goods reach Ayodhya in safety.”
Conan exchanged a look with Hordo, then said, “Done.”
“Very good. Until you are ready to ride to the caravan, I will wait with the guards Captain Torio was good enough to lend me. Come, nieces.”
As soon as the Khitans were gone, Baltis let out a low laugh. “A gold and two silvers to make a journey we were making for free. The Khitan must have a king’s wealth to pay so. There’s luck in you, Cimmerian. Take that sour look off your face, Prytanis.”
“That,” Hasan announced, “was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
“Kuie Hsi?” Shamil said jealously.
“The other. Chin Kou.”
“That is all we need,” Hordo grumbled as he began rolling his blankets, “for those two to lose their heads over this Khitan’s nieces. You realize he was lying, do you not? Unless there are two men called Valash captaining ships on the Vilayet, he never got those wenches off that vessel as easily as he makes out.”
“I know,” Conan said. “I did not hear you refusing him because of it though.” The one-eyed man muttered something. “What, Hordo?”
“I said, at least this time you’ve not gotten us involved with a wizard. You have a bad habit of making wizards annoyed with you.”
Shouldering his saddle, Conan laughed. “This time I will not come within a league of a wizard.”
CHAPTER X
The music of cithern, flute and tambour sounded softly in the alabaster-columned chamber, the musicians hidden behind a lacy screen carved of ivory. Golden lamps, hanging on silver chains from the vaulted ceiling, cast a sheen on the olive skins of six veiled, supple women, clothed in naught else but tinkling golden bells at their ankles, who danced with finger-cymbals. The smell of incense and attar of roses suffused the air. Other women, as lovely as the dancers and garbed as they, scurried with dainty steps to proffer silver trays of sweetmeats, figs and candied delicacies to Naipal, reclining at his ease on cushions of brocaded silk. Two of their sisters worked long fans of pale ostrich plumes to cool him. The mage merely picked at the offerings and toyed with his goblet of Shirakman wine. He gave as little heed to the women, for his mind was distant from his surroundings.
Near Naipal’s head knelt a soft, round-faced man whose tunic of scarlet silk and turban of gold and blue seemed gaudy beside the wizard’s soft grays. He, too, gave no eye to the women as he reported in a soft voice on how the day had seen his master’s wishes carried out. “And one thousand pice were handed out in your name, lord, to the beggars of Ayodhya. An additional one thousand pice were…”
Naipal stared into his wine, as heedless of its exquisite bouquet as of the eunuch’s voice. Five times as the tortuous days passed he had gone to the hidden chamber; twice he actually put his hand on the ornate ivory case. But each time he convinced himself to wait, each time with a new reason. The canker in his bosom was that he well knew the true cause of his hesitancy. To open the case, to gaze on the mirror within, perhaps to see that danger to all his plans was yet reflected there, this was more than he could bear. The fear he had fought off in that night of frenzy was returned a hundredfold to paralyze him. Something whispered in the back of his mind, wait. Wait a little longer, and surely the mirror would again be empty, the danger dealt with by his far-flung minions. He knew the whisper was false, yet even as he castigated himself for listening, he waited.
To take his mind from doubts and self-flagellation, he tried to listen to the eunuch. The fat man now murmured of the day’s happenings in Ayodhya, such as he thought might interest his master.
“…And finding his favorite wife in the embrace of her two lovers, each a groom from his own stables, Jharim Kar slew the men and flogged his wife. He slew as well three servants who were witness, but the tale is already laughed at in the bazaars, lord. In the forenoon Shahal Amir was slain on the outskirts of the city, by bandits it is said, but two of his wives…”
Sighing, Naipal let the man’s continued burblings pass his ears unheard. Another time the matter of Jharim Kar would have been pleasing, though not of prime importance. A score of deft manipulations to lead a woman to folly and a husband to discovery of that folly, with the result that a man who once gathered other lords around him was now laughed at. A man could not be at once a leader and the butt of bawdy laughter. It was not that Naipal bore Jharim Kar any animus. The nobleman had simply attracted too many others to his side, creating what could have grown into a island of stability in a sea of shifting loyalties and intrigues. The wizard could not allow that. Greater intrigues and increasing turmoil were necessary to his plans. Bhandarkar guarded himself well against his wizard; kings who trusted too much did not long rule, and this king’s toenail parings or hair clippings were burned as soon as cut. But Bhandarkar would die, if not from so esoteric a means as he feared, and without his strong hand, turmoil would become chaos, a chaos on which Naipal would impose a new order. Not in his own name, of course. But he would pull the strings, and the king he put on the throne would not even know he danced at another’s will.
Lost in dreams of the future, Naipal was startled by the sudden throbbing warmth on his chest. Not quite believing, he clutched at the black opal beneath his robes. Through layers of silk the stone pulsed against his palm. Masrok signaled!
“Be silent!” he roared, throwing the goblet at the eunuch’s head for emphasis. The round-faced man snapped his mouth shut as though fearing for his tongue. “Go to Ashok,” Naipal ordered. “Tell him that all I have commanded is to be readied at once. At once!”
“I run to obey, lord.” The eunuch began shuffling backward on his knees, bumping his forehead to the floor.
“Then run, Katar take you!” Naipal shouted. “Or you will find there is more than can be taken from a man than you have lost!” Babbling terrified compliance, the eunuch scrambled to his feet, still genuflecting, and fled. Naipal’s glare swept from the sleek nudity of the dancers to the ivory screen hiding the musicians. At his command for silence, all had frozen, hardly daring to breathe. “Play!” he barked. “Dance! You will all be beaten for laziness!”