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

“My name is Conan. Open the gate, man. I bear a message to your master from King Garian himself.”

There was a moment’s whispered conversation on the other side of the gate. Then came the rattle of a bar being drawn, and the gate opened enough for one man to pass.

“You can enter,” the voice from inside called, “but not the others.”

“Conan,” Hordo began.

The Cimmerian quieted him with a gesture. “Rest easy, Hordo. I could not be safer in a woman’s arms.” He slipped through the opening.

As the gate closed behind him with a solid thud, Conan faced four men with drawn swords; another snugged the point of his blade under the Cimmerian’s ribs from the side.

“Now, who are you?” rasped the swordsman who pricked Conan’s tunic.

Wishing he had had sense enough to don his hauberk before leaving the Royal Palace, Conan turned his h

ead enough to make out a narrow face with wide-set eyes and a nose with the tip gone. “I told you.” He reached beneath his tunic, and froze as the sword point dug deeper. “I want only to show you the message. What trouble can I mean with a sword in my ribs?”

To himself, he thought that clip-nose stood too close. The man should never have touched blade to tunic unless he meant to thrust. One quick sweep of the arm would knock that sword aside, then clip-nose could be hurled at his fellow, and … . The big Cimmerian smiled, and the others shifted uneasily, wondering what he found to smile about.

“Let me see this message,” clip-nose demanded.

From beneath his tunic Conan produced the folded parchment. Clip-nose reached, but he moved it beyond the man’s grasp. “You can see the seal from there,” he said. “It’s meant for Lord Albanus, not you.”

“’Tis the Dragon Seal, in truth,” clip-nose muttered. His sword left Conan’s ribs with obvious reluctance. “Follow me, then, and do not stray.”

Conan shook his head as they started up the stone walk toward the palace proper, a massive structure of fluted columns, with a great gilded dome that hurled back the sun. Suspicion on the guards’ part had been warranted, given the state of the city, but the surliness should have faded when they learned he was a Royal Messenger. That it had not spoke ill for Garian’s plans. Often men absorbed the attitudes of their master without either man or master realizing.

In the many-columned entry hall, clip-nose conferred, well out of Conan’s hearing, with a gray-bearded man whose tunic was emblazoned with Lord Albanus’ house-mark backed by a great key. Clip-nose left, returning to his post at the gate, and the gray-bearded man approached Conan.

“I am Lord Albanus’ chamberlain,” he said, giving neither name nor courtesy. “Give me the message.”

“I will place it in Lord Albanus’ hands,” Conan replied flatly.

He had no real reason not to give it to the chamberlain, for such a one was his master’s agent in all things, yet he was irked. A messenger from the King should have been given chilled wine and damp towels to take the dust of the street from him.

The chamberlain’s face tightened, and for a moment Conan thought the man would argue. Instead he said curtly, “Follow me,” and led the Cimmerian up marble stairs to a small room. “Wait here,” he commanded Conan, and left after casting an eye about as if cataloguing the room’s contents against a light-fingered visitor.

It was no mean room for all its smallness. Tapestry-hung and marble-floored, its furnishings were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli. An arch led onto a balcony overlooking a garden fountain. But still there were neither towels nor wine. It boded ill indeed for Garian, such insult to his messenger.

Muttering to himself, Conan walked to the balcony and looked down. Almost he cried out in surprise, slights forgotten for the moment. Stephano staggered drunkenly through the garden, half supported by two girls in skimpy silks.

The sculptor bent to dabble his fingers in the fountain and near fell in. “No water,” he laughed at the girls, as they drew him back. “Want more wine, not water.” Giggling together, they wound a shaky way from the fountain and into the exotic shrubs.

Someone cleared his throat behind Conan, and the Cimmerian spun.

A plump man of middling height stood there, one hand clutching his ill-fitting velvet tunic at the neck. “You have a message for me?” he said.

“Lord Albanus?” Conan said.

The plump man nodded shortly and thrust out his hand. Slowly Conan gave him the sealed parchment. The plump man’s hand closed on it like a trap. “Now go,” he said. “I have the message. Go!”

Conan went.

The gray-bearded chamberlain was waiting immediately outside to conduct him to the door, and there clip-nose waited with another man to escort him to the gate.

As he emerged, Hordo brought his horse forward, a relieved grin wreathing his scarred face. “Almost was I ready to come over that wall after you.”

“I had no trouble,” Conan said as he mounted. “I carried the King’s message, remember. When next you see Ariane, tell her that Stephano is not dead, as she feared. He dwells within, sporting himself with serving girls.”