As shadows lengthened with the sinking sun, Conan left Vyndra sleeping on the cushions and went in search of more wine.
“Immediately, master,” a servant said in response to his request, adding at his next question, “No, master, the two men have not yet returned from the city. I know nothing of the Khitan woman, master.”
Finding a chamber with tall, arched windows looking to the west, Conan sat with his foot on the windowsill and his back against its frame. The sun, violent red in a purpling sky, hung its own diameter above the towering trees in the distance. It was a grim sight, fit for his mood. The day had been useless. Waiting in the palace, even making love to Vyndra, however enjoyable, now seemed time wasted. At least in following the caravan this far there had been the illusion of doing something about the poison in his veins, of hunting down the men whose deaths he must see to before his own. One of those men, at least, was in the city, not a league distant, and here he sat, waiting.
“Patil?”
At the soft female voice, he looked around. An unveiled Vendhyan woman stood in the doorway of the chamber, her plain robes of cotton neither those of a servant nor of a noble.
“You do not recognize me,” she said with a smile, and abruptly he did.
“Kuie Hsi,” he gasped. “I did not believe you could so completely—” Impatiently he put all that aside. “What did you learn?”
“Much, and little. The caravan remained in the city only hours, for the merchants’ markets are in Ayodhya and the nobles are impatient to reach the court. Karim Singh, however,” she added as he leaped to his feet, “is yet in Gwandiakan, though I could not learn where.”
“He will not escape me,” Conan growled. “Nor this Naipal, wizard though he be. But why does the wazam remain here rather than going on to the court?”
“Perhaps because, according to rumor, Naipal has been in Gwandiakan for two days. As his face is known to few, however, this cannot be confirmed.”
Conan’s fist smacked into his palm. “Crom, but this cannot be other than fate. Both of them within my grasp. I will finish it this night.”
The Khitan woman caught his arm as he started from the chamber. “If you mean to enter Gwandiakan, take care, for the city is uneasy. Soldiers have been arresting the children of the streets, all of the homeless urchins and beggar children, supposedly on the orders of the wazam. Many are angered, and the poorer sections of the city need but a spark to burst into flame. The streets of Gwandiakan could run with blood over this.”
“I have seen blood before,” he said grimly, and then he was striding down the tapestried corridors. “Punjar! My horse!”
But half-awake, Vyndra stretched on the cushions, noting lazily that the lamps had been lit and night was come. Abruptly she frowned. Someone had laid a silken coverlet over her. With a gasp she clutched the covering to her at the sight of Chin Kou. The Khitan woman’s arms were filled with folds of many-colored silk.
“I brought garments,” Chin Kou said.
Vyndra pulled the coverlet up about her neck. “And what made you think I would need clothing?” she demanded haughtily.
“I am sorry,” Chin Kou said, turning to leave. “No doubt when you wish to cover yourself, you will summon servants. I will leave you the coverlet since you seem to desire that.”
“Wait!” Blushing, Vyndra fingered the coverlet. “I did not know. As you have brought the garments, you might as well leave them.”
Chin Kou arched an eyebrow. “There is no need to take such a tone with me. I know very well what you were doing with the cheng-li who calls himself Patil.” Vyndra groaned, the scarlet in her cheeks deepening. After a moment the merchant’s daughter took pity. “I was doing the same thing with the cheng-li who calls himself Hasan. Now I know your secret and you know mine. You fear only shame before your servants. My uncle’s switch produces a much greater smarting than mere shame.”
Vyndra stared at the other woman as though seeing her for the first time. It was not that she had been unaware of Chin Kou, but the Khitan was a merchant’s niece and surely merchants’ nieces did not think and feel in the same way as a woman born of the Kshatriya blood. Or did they? “Do you love him?” she asked. “Hasan, I mean?”
r /> “Yes,” Chin Kou said emphatically, “though I do not know if he returns my feelings. Do you love the man called Patil?”
Vyndra shook her head. “As well love a tiger. But,” she added with a mischievousness she could not control, “to be made love to by a tiger is a very fine thing.”
“Hasan,” Chin Kou said gravely, “is also very vigorous.”
Suddenly the two women were giggling, and the giggles became deep-throated laughter.
“Thank you for the clothing,” Vyndra said when she could talk again. Tossing aside the coverlet, she rose. Chin Kou aided her in dressing, though she did not ask it, and once she was garbed, she said, “Come. We will have wine and talk of men and tigers and other strange beasts.”
As the Khitan woman opened her mouth to reply, a shrill scream echoed through the palace, followed by the shouts of men and the clang of steel on steel.
Chin Kou clutched at Vyndra’s arm. “We must hide.”
“Hide!” Vyndra exclaimed. “This is my palace and I will not cower in it like a rabbit.”
“Foolish pride speaks,” the smaller woman said. “Think what kind of bandits would attack a palace! Do you think your noble blood will protect you?”
“Yes. And you also. Even brigands will know that a ransom will be paid, for you and your sister as well, once they know who I am.”