“Unless he took the sword,” Albanus said. “What did they say of that under the question?”

“Little enough,” Vegentius sighed. “For the most part they begged for mercy. All they knew was that they were ordered to stop a madman who was slaughtering people in the Market District. They found him fighting a northern barbarian and killed him. When they discovered they’d slain a lord, they were so terrified they had no thought for the sword. They didn’t even bring in the barbarian.”

“He was still alive?” Albanus said, surprised. “He must be a master swordsman.”

Vegentius laughed disparangingly. “Melius barely knew one end of a blade from the other.”

“The skill is in the blade,” Albanus said. “Six masters of the sword were slain in the making of it, their blood used for quenching, their bones burned to heat it, the essence of their art infused into its metal.”

“Slash and hack, that’s all Vegentius knows.” Demetrio’s voice dripped mockery. “But the art of steel … .” His blade whipped from its sheath. Knees bent, he danced across the colorfully woven carpet, his sword working intricate figures in the air.

“That fancy work may be good enough for first-blood duels among the gently born,” Vegentius sneered, “but ’tis a different matter in battle, when your life hangs on your blade.”

“Enough!” Albanus snapped. “Both of you, enough!” He drew a ragged breath. One day he would let them fight, for his entertainment, then have the winner impaled. But now was not the time. Thirty years he had worked for this. Too much time, too much effort, too much humiliating terror to allow it all to be ruined now. “That barbarian may have taken the sword. Find him! Find that blade!”

“I’ve already started,” the square-faced soldier said smugly. “I sent word to Taras. He’ll have had his alley rats hunting all night.”

“Good.” Albanus rubbed his hands together, making a sound like dry parchment rustling. “And you, Demetrio. What have you been doing to find the blade?”

“Asking ten thousand questions,” the slender noble replied wearily. “From the Street of Regrets to the House of a Thousand Orchids. I heard nothing. If Vegentius had thought to let me know of this barbarian it would have made my searching easier.”

Vegentius examined his nails with a complacent smile. “Who’d have thought to look for you in the House of a Thousand Orchids? They provide only women to their customers.”

Demetrio slammed his sword back into its sheath as if he were driving it into the soldier’s heart. Before he could open his mouth, though, Albanus spoke.

“There’s no time for his petty bickering. Find that sword. Steal it, buy it, I care not, but get it. And without attracting attention.”

“And if its possessor has discovered its properties?” Demetrio asked.

“Then kill him,” Albanus said smoothly. “Or her.” He turned to go.

“One more thing,” Vegentius said abruptly. “Taras wants to meet with you.”

Albanus turned back to face them, his eyes black flints. “That scum dares? He should be licking the paving stones in gratitude for the gold he’s given.”

“He’s afraid,” Vegentius said. “Him and some of the others who know a little of what they really do. I can cow them, but even gold won’t put their guts back unless they see you face to face and hear you tell them it all will happen as they’ve been told.”

“Mitra blast them!” Albanus’eyes went to the bas-relief on the walls. Had Bragoras had to deal with such? “Very well. Arrange you a meeting in some out-of-the-way place.”

“It will be done,” the soldier replied.

Albanus smiled suddenly, the first genuine smile the others had ever seen on his face. “When I am on the throne, this Taras and his daggermen will be flayed alive in the Plaza of Kings. A good king should be seen to protect his people against such as they.” He barked a laugh. “Now get you gone. When next I see you, bear a report of success.”

He left with as little ceremony as he had come, for already he began to feel beyond the courtesies ordinary men offered one another. They were fools in any case, unable to realize that he saw them no differently than he saw Taras. Or that he would deal with them as harshly in the end. And if they would betray one king, they would betray another.

Inside his dimly lit bedchamber he strode impatiently to a large square sheet of transparent crystal hung on the wall. The thin crystal was undecorated save for odd markings around its outer edge, markings that lay entirely within the crystal. In the light from a single, small gold tripod lamp the markings were almost invisible, but from long practice Albanus’ fingers touched the proper ones in the proper sequence, intoning words in a language three millenia dead.

As his finger lifted from the last, the crystal darkened to a deep silvery blue. Slowly pictures formed within it. In the crystal men moved and gestured, talking though no sound could be heard. Albanus gazed on Garian, who thought himself safe in the Royal Palace, conferring with long-bearded Sulpicius and bald Malaric, his two most trusted councelors.

The King was a tall man, heavily muscled still from a boyhood spent with the ar

my, but now beginning to show a smooth layer of fat from half a year of inactivity on the throne. His square-jawed face with its deep-set dark eyes had lost some of the openness it had once had. Sitting on the throne was responsible for that change as well.

Albanus’ hands moved around the rim of the crystal again, and Garian’s face swelled until it filled the entire square.

“Why do you do that so often?”

The blonde who spoke watched him with sapphire cat eyes from the satin cushions of his bed. She stretched langorously, her skin gleaming like honeyed ivory in the dimness, her dancer’s legs seeming even longer as she pointed her toes. Her large, pear-shaped breasts lifted as she arched her slender back. Albanus felt his throat thicken.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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