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

With this concoction he traced other lines of that scribing on the tray. Powder and liquid each formed a closed figure, yet though no part of one touched the other, some portions of each shape seemed to be within the other. But those portions were not always the same, and the eye that looked on them too long spun with nausea and dizziness.

For a bare moment Albanus paused, anticipating, savoring. There had been the matter of the droughts, but this was the first time that he had struck so at a human being. The power of it seemed to course through his veins, building like the pleasure of taking a woman. Every instant of prolonging made the pleasure greater. But he knew there was no time.

Spreading his arms he began to chant in a long-dead tongue, his voice invoking, commanding. Powder and liquid began to glow, and his words became more insistent.

Demetrio moved back as the arcane syllables pierced his brain, not stopping until he stood against the wall. He understood no single one of them, yet all had meaning in the depths of his soul, and the evil that he cherished there knew itself for a lighted spill beside a dark burning mountain. He would have screamed, but terror had him by the throat; his screams echoed in the sunless caverns of his mind.

Albanus’ voice grew no louder, yet his words seemed to shake the walls. Tapestries stirred as if at an unseen, unfelt wind. The glow from the silver tray grew, brighter, ever brighter, till it sliced through closed eyelids like razors of fire. Then powder and liquid alike were no more, replaced by burning mist that still held the shape of that pattern and seemed more solid that those first substances had been.

A clap sounded in the room, as thunder, and the mist was gone, the graven silver surface clear. The glow lingered a moment longer, behind the eyes, then it, too, faded.

Albanus sighed heavily, and lowered his arms. “Done,” he muttered. “’Tis done.” His gaze rose to meet that of Demetrio; the slender young man shivered.

“My Lord Albanus,” Demetrio said, long unattempted humility cloying in his throat, yet driven by his fear, “I would say again that I serve you to the best of my abilities, and that I wish no more than to see you take your rightful place on the Dragon Throne.”

“You are a good servant?” Albanus said, his mouth curling with cruel amusement.

The young noble’s face flushed with anger, but he stammered, “I am.”

Albanus’ voice was as smooth and as cutting as the surgeon’s knife. “Then be silent until I have need for you to serve me again.”

Demetrio’s face went pale; Albanus noted it, but said nothing. The youth was beginning to learn his proper place in the scheme of things. He had his uses in gathering information. Perhaps, an he learned his place well enough, he could be allowed to live.

Carefully the cruel-eyed lord relocked the lacquered chest. “Come,” he said, turning from the chest. “We have little time to meet the others.”

He saw the question—what others?—trembling on Demetrio’s lips. When it did not come, he allowed himself a smile. Such was the proper attitude toward a king, to accept what was given. How sweet it would be to have all of Nemedia so. And perhaps beyond Nemedia. Why should borders decided by others deter him?

In short order they had donned heavy cloaks against the night and left the palace. Four slaves carried torches, two before and two behind. Ten armed and armored guards, mail and leather creaking, surrounded Albanus as he made his way through the dark streets. That they surrounded Demetrio as well was incidental.

They saw no one, although scurrying feet could often be heard as footpads and others who lurked in the night hurried to be out of the way, and from time to time some glimmer of sound from the Street of Regrets came to them as the wind shifted. Elsewhere, those who could not afford to hire bodyguards slept ill at ease, praying that theirs would not be among the houses ravaged that night.

Then, as they approached Sephana’s palace, where fluted marble columns rose behind the alabaster wall enclosing her garden, a procession of torches appeared down the street. Albanus stopped some distance from the palace gate, waiting in silence for a proper greeting.

“Is that you, Albanus?” came Vegentius’ growl. “A foul night, and a foul thing to have to slit the throat of one of my own captains.”

Albanus’ mouth twisted. This one would not live, not an he were a hundred times as useful. He waited to speak until Vegentius and his followers, a score of Golden Leopards, their cloaks thrown back to give sword arms free play, half bearing torches, were close enough to be seen clearly.

“At least you managed to dispose of Baetis. Have you yet found the barbarian?”

“Taras has sent no word,” the big soldier said. “’Tis likely, pursued as he was, that he’s no more than a common thief or murderer. Naught to concern us.”

Albanus favored him with a scornful glance. “Whatever disrupts a meeting like that concerns me. Why did the Guard pursue him so? Long time has passed ere they were known for such enthusiasm.”

“This matter differs from that of Melius. I have no pretext to ask questions of the Guard.”

“Make one,” Albanus commanded. “And now force me this gate.”

Vegentius spoke quietly to his men. Six of them moved quickly to the wall, dividing into two groups. In each trio two men linked hands to lift the third, who laid his cloak across the jagged shards of pottery set in the top of the wall and scrambled over to drop on the far side. From thence a startled cry was heard, then cut significantly short. With a rattle of stout bars being lifted, the gates swung open.

Albanus marched in, sparing not a glance for the guard who lay in the light spilling from the small gatehouse, surrounded by a spreading pool of blood.

Vegentius told off two more men to remain at the gate. The rest followed the hawk-faced lord through the landscape gardens to the palace itself, with its pale columns and intricately worked cornices, and up broad marble stairs to a spacious portico. Some ran to throw back the tall bronze-hung doors with a crash.

In the columned entry hall, half a dozen men started, and stared as soldiers rushed in to surround them with bared blades.

“Dispose of them,” Albanus ordered without slowing. He went straight to the alabaster stairs, Demetrio trailing after.

Behind him men began shouting for mercy as they were herded away.