The sun, Conan estimated, stood well past the zenith. It was the day after his fight with the S‘tarra, and Karela was once more closeted with Amanar for the entire morning. The bandits slept or drank or gambled, forgetting the ill of the night in the light of the sun. Conan sat cross-legged on the ground, honing his blade as he watched the black keep. To conceal his bandaged wound, he had donned a black tunic that covered him to below the hips. He lay the blade across his knees as a S’tarra approached.
“You are called Conan of Cimmeria?” the creature hissed.
“I am,” Conan replied.
“She who is called Karela asks that you come to her.”
There had been no further attempt to question the bandits about the occurrences in the night. Conan could not see how he might be connected with them now. He rose and sheathed his sword.
“Lead,” he commanded.
The big Cimmerian tensed while passing through the gate, but the guards gave him no more than a flicker of their lifeless red eyes. In the donjon the S‘tarra led him a way he did not know, to huge doors that Conan realized to his shock were of burnished gold. A great reptilian head was worked in each, surrounded by what appeared to be rays of light. The S’tarra struck a small silver gong hanging from the wall. Conan’s neckhairs stirred at the great doors swung open with no human agency that he could see. The S’tarra gestured for him to enter.
With a firm tread Conan walked through the open doors; they swung shut almost on his heels with a thump of finality. The ceiling of the great room was a fluted dome, supported by massive columns of carved ivory. Across the mosaic floor Amanar sat on a throne made of golden serpents, while another burnished serpent reared behind it, great ruby eyes regarding all who approached. The mage’s robe, too, was gold, seemingly of ten thousand tiny scales that glittered in the light of golden lamps. Human musicians filed out by a side door as Conan entered. The only other present was Karela, standing beside Amanar’s throne and drinking thirstily from a goblet.
She lowered the goblet in surprise at the sight of Conan. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. The chamber was cool, yet perspiration dampened her face, and her breath came quickly.
“I was told you sent for me,” Conan said. Warily he placed a hand on his sword.
“I never sent for you,” she said.
“I took the liberty,” Amanar said, “of using your name, Karela, to ensure the man would come.”
“Ensure he’d come?” Puzzled, Karela swung her green eyes from Conan to the mage. “Why would he not?”
Amanar pursed his lips and touched them with his golden staff. His eyes on Conan seemed amused. “This night past were five of my S’tarra slain.”
Conan wondered from which direction the S’tarra would come. There could be a score of doors hidden behind those ivory columns.
“You think Conan did this killing?” Karela said. “I spoke to you of this matter this morning, and you said nothing.”
“Sometimes,” the dark sorcerer said, “it is best to wait, to let the guilty think they will escape. But I see you require proof.” He swung his staff against a small crystal bell that stood in a silver stand beside the throne.
At the chime the door through which the musicians had departed opened again. Aberius hesitantly entered the chamber, his eyes darting from Conan to the throne, as if measuring the distance to each. He rubbed his palms on the front of his yellow tunic.
“Speak,” Amanar commanded.
Aberius’ pointed face twitched. He swallowed. “Last night, before the gong sounded, I saw this Conan of Cimmeria leave our camp.” His beady black eyes avoided Karela. “This surprised me, for all of us think the darkness of the nights here strange, and none will go out in them. None other did, that night as before. Conan returned after the alarm, with a wound on his side. I’ll warrant there’s a bandage beneath that tunic.”
“Why did you not come to me, Aberius?” Karela said angrily. Her piercing gaze shifted to the Cimmerian. “I said, Conan, that I’d have the ears of any man involved, and I—”
“I fear,” Amanar interrupted smoothly, “that it is I who must set this man’s punishment. It is me he has offended against. You, Aberius,” he added in a sharper tone, “go now. The gold agreed upon will be given as you leave.”
The weasel-faced bandit opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, then suddenly scurried from the room. The small door closed behind him.
“Why, Conan?” Karela asked softly. “Is that girl worth so much to you?” She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. “I give him to you,” she said.
Conan’s blade slipped from its sheath with a rasping whisper. “You reckon without me,” the Cimmerian said. “I give myself to no one.”
Amanar rose, holding the golden staff across his chest like a scepter. “Extend your life, Cimmerian. Prostrate yourself and beg, and I may have mercy on you.” He started forward at a slow walk.
“Dog of a sorcerer,” Conan grated, “come no closer. I know your mage’s tricks with powders that kill when breathed.” The golden-robed man came on, neither speeding nor slowing. “I warn you,” Conan said. “Die then!”
With the speed of a striking falcon the big Cimmerian youth lunged. Amanar’s staff whipped up; hissing, a citron vapor was expelled from its tip. Conan held his breath and plunged through the cloud. His sword struck Amanar’s chest, piercing to the hilt. For a bare moment Conan stood chest to chest and eye to eye with the mage. Then his muscles turned to water. He tried to cry out as he toppled to the mosaic floor, but there was no sound except the thud of his fall. His great chest labored for breath, and his every muscle twitched and trembled, but not at his command.
The sorcerer stood above him, viewing him with the same dispassion he might exhibit at a bird found dead in the keep. “A concentrated derivative from the pollen of the golden lotus of Khitai,” he said in a conversational tone. A thin smile curled his lips cruelly. “It works by contact, not by breathing, my knowledgeable thief. The paralysis grows if no antidote is applied, deeper and deeper until life itself is paralyzed. I am told one feels oneself dying by inches.”
“Amanar,” Karela gasped, “the sword!” She stood by the throne, a trembling hand pressed to her lips.