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

He droned on, but Conan’s attention was caught by the man standing slightly behind the Dragon Throne, one hand resting on it possessively while he nodded at the King’s words like a teacher approving a pupil. The Seal of Nemedia hung on a golden chain about his neck, which marked him as the High Councilor of Nemedia, Lord Albanus. But Conan knew that cruel face, seen in the dark meeting with Taras and Vegentius. Did madness reign in Nemedia, the Cimmerian wondered.

“ … So we pronounce the ancient penalty for his crime,” the King intoned funereally.

That brought Conan’s mind quickly back. There was on Garian’s face none of the sadness he had shown when Conan was taken, only flat calm.

“When next the sun has dawned and risen to its zenith let this would-be regicide be hurled to the wolves. Let the beast be torn by beasts.”

As soon as the last word was spoken, Conan was pulled to his feet and hurried from the throne room. Not even the round-faced jailor spoke as the Cimmerian was returned to the dungeons, this time to a small cell, its stone floor strewn with filthy straw. The pole and the gag were removed, but not his chains. Another was added, linking that between his ankles to a ring set in the wall.

As soon as the two jailors were gone Conan began to explore his new prison. Lying full length on his belly, he could have reached the heavy wooden door were his hands not linked behind him, but there was nothing on which to get a grip even if his hands had been free. Nor did he truly believe he could break the stout iron hinges. The walls were rough stone, close set but with aged mortar crumbling. A man with tools might remove enough of them to escape. In a year or two. The rotting straw held nothing but a half-gnawed rat carcass. The Cimmerian could not help wondering whether the gnawing had been done by its fellows or by the last prisoner. Kicking it into a far corner, he hoped he would not long have to endure the smell.

No sooner had Conan settled himself with his back against the wall than a key rattled in the large iron lock, and the cell door creaked open. To his surprise Albanus entered, holding his black velvet robes carefully clear of the foul straw. Behind him the cloth-of-gold-clad form of the King stopped in the doorway. Garian’s face turned this way and that, eyes curiously taking in the straw and the stone walls. He looked at Conan once, as if the big Cimmerian were just another fixture of the cell.

It was Albanus who spoke. “You know me, don’t you?”

“You are Lord Albanus,” Conan replied warily.

“You know me,” the hawk-faced man said, as if confirming a suspicion. “I feared as much. ‘Tis well I acted when I did.”

Conan tensed. “You?” His eyes went to Garian’s face. Why would this man make such an admission before the King?

“Expect no help from him,” Albanus laughed. “For a time, barbar, you were a worry to me, but it seems in the end you are no weapon of the gods after all. The wolves will put an end to you, and the only real damage you have done me is being repaired by the girl you sent seeking the sculptor. No, in the sum of it, you are naught but a minor nuisance.”

“Ariane,” Conan said sharply. “What have you done with her?”

The obsidian-eyed lord laughed cruelly. “Come, King Garian. Let us leave this place.”

“What have you done to Ariane?” Conan shouted as Albanus left. The King paused to look at him; he stared into Garian’s face with as close to pleading as he could come. “Tell me what he has done … .”

The words died on his lips even as the other turned to go. The door creaked shut. Stunned, Conan leaned back against the stone wall.

Since that first entrance into the throne room, he had felt some oddity in Garian but put it down to himself. No man sees things aright while hearing his own death sentence. But now he had noticed a small thing. There was no bruise on Garian’s cheek. Garian was no man to cover such things with powder like a woman, and he had no court sorcerer to take away such blemishes with a quick spell and a burning candle. Nor had it had time to fade naturally. A small thing, yet it meant that he who had sat on the Dragon Throne and passed sentence on Conan was not Garian.

Mind whirling, the Cimmerian tried to make some sense of it. Albanus plotted rebellion, yet now was councilor to a King who was not Garian. But it had been Garian in Vegentius’ apartments only the night before. Of that Conan was certain. He smelled the stench of sorcery as clearly as he did the rotting straw on which he sat.

Patience, he reminded himself. He could do nothing chained in a cell. Much would depend on whether he was freed of those bonds before he was thrown to the wolves. Even among wolves a great deal could be done by a man with hands free and will unfettered. This, Conan resolved, Albanus would learn to his regret.

Sularia lay face down on a toweled bench while the skilled hands of a slave woman worked fragrant oils into her back. Lady Sularia, she thought, stretching luxuriantly. So wonderful it had been standing among the lords and ladies in the throne room, rather than being crowded with the other lemans along the back wall. If her acceptance had been from fear, the smiles and greetings given her sickly and shamefaced, it only added to the pleasure, for those who spoke respectfully now had oft spoken as if she were a slave. And this did not have to be the end. If she could move from the mistresses’ wall to stand with the nobles, why not from there to stand beside Albanus? Queen Sularia.

Smiling at the thought, she turned her head on her folded arms and regarded her maid, a plump gray-haired woman who was the only one in the Palace Sularia trusted. Or rather, the one she distrusted least.

“Does she still wait, Latona?” Sularia asked.

The gray-haired maid nodded briskly. “For two turns of the glass now, mistress. No one would dare disobey your summon’s.”

The blonde nodded self-satisfied agreement without lifting her head. “Bring her in, Latona. Then busy yourself with my hair.”

“Yes. mistress,” Latona cackled, and hurried out. When she returned she escorted the Lady Jelanna.

The willowy noblewoman looked askance at Latona as the serving woman began to labor over her mistress’ hair, while Sularia smiled like a cat at a dish of cream. Only when receiving an inferior would servants be retaine

d so. Some of the arrogance had gone from Jelanna with her wait.

Enough remained, however, for her to demand at last, “Why have you summoned me here, Sularia?” Sularia raised a questioning eyebrow. After a moment Jelanna amended, “Lady Sularia.” Her mouth was twisted as if at a foul taste.

“You grew from a child in this Palace, did you not?” the blonde began in a pleasant tone.

Jelanna’s reply was curt. “I did.”