Conan the Unconquered (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 3)

Jhandar smiled when he left the chamber. Already he knew more of the secrets of Turan than any ten other men. Already, with a whisper in the proper ear of what the owner of that ear would die to keep secret, he influenced decisions at the highest levels. Nay, he made those decisions. Soon the throne itself would bow to his will. He would not demand that his position as true ruler of Turan be made known to all. That he ruled would be enough. First Turan, then perhaps Zamora, and then … .

“Great Lord.”

Reverie broken, Jhandar glared at the shaven-headed man who had accosted him in a main corridor of his palatial quarters. Lamps of gold and silver, made from melted-down jewelry provided by new members of the Cult, cast glittering lights from walls worked in porphyry and amber.

“Why do you disturb me, Zephran?” he demanded. Not even the Chosen were allowed to approach him unbidden.

“Forgive me, Great Lord,” Zephran answered, bowing low, “but I had a most distressing encounter in the city near dusk.”

“Distressing encounter? What are you blathering about? I have no time for foolishness.”

“It was a barbarian, Great Lord, who spoke of sacrifices within the Cult, of the altar and the use of blood.”

Jhandar clutched his robes in white-knuckled fists. “Hyrkanian? He was Hyrkanian?”

“Nay, Great Lord.”

“He must have been.”

“Nay, Great Lord. His skin was pale where not bronzed by the sun, and his eyes were most strange, as blue as the sea.”

Jhandar sagged against the wall. In Hyrkania, across the Vilayet Sea, he had first founded the Cult, first created and confined a Pool of Chaos. He would have welded the scattered Hyrkanian tribes of fierce horsemen into a single force that moved at his word. He would have launched such a wave of warriors as would have washed over Turan and Zamora and all to the West until it came to the sea. He would have … .

But the spirit manifestations had not been properly controlled. They had managed to communicate to the living what occurred within the compound he was building, and the tribesmen had ridden against him, slaughtering his followers. Only by loosing the Power, turning a part of the Hyrkanian steppes into a hell, had be himself managed to escape. They believed in blood vengeance, those Hyrkanians. Deep within him was the seed of fear, fear that they would follow him across the sea. Ridiculous, he knew, yet he could not rid himself of it.

“Great Lord,” Zephran said diffidently, “I do not understand why filthy Hyrkanians should concern you. The few I have seen in—”

“You understand nothing,” Jhandar snarled. “This barbarian. You killed him?”

Zephran shifted uneasily. “Great Lord, I … I lost him in the night and the crowd among the taverns near the harbor.”

“Fool! Roust your fellows from their beds! Find that barbarian! He must die! No! Bring him to me. I must find out how many others know. Well, what are you waiting for? Go, fool! Go!”

Zephran ran, leaving Jhandar staring at nothing. Not again, the necromancer thought. He would not fail again. He would pull the world down in ruins if need be, but he would not fail.

VI

Conan descended to the common room of the Blue Bull taking each step with care. He did not truly believe that his head would crack if he took a misstep, but he saw no reason to take a chance. The night before had turned into a seemingly endless procession of tavern after tavern, of tankard after tan

kard. And all he had gotten for his trouble was a head like a barrel.

He spotted Sharak, digging eagerly into a bowl of stew, and winced at the old man’s enthusiasm. With a sigh he dropped onto a bench at the astrologer’s table.

“Do you have to be so vigorous about that, Sharak?” the Cimmerian muttered. “It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach.”

“The secret is clean living,” Sharak cackled gleefully. “I live properly, so I never have to worry about a head full of wine fumes. Or seldom, at least. And it brings me luck. Last night, asking about for Emilio, I discovered that the strumpets of this city fancy Zamoran astrology. And do you know why?”

“What did you find out about Emilio, Sharak?”

“Because it’s foreign. They think anything imported must be better. Of course, some of them want to pay in other coin than gold or silver.” He cackled again. “I spent the night in the arms of a wench with the most marvelous—”

“Sharak. Emilio?”

The gaunt old man sighed. “If you wanted to boast a bit, I wouldn’t stop you. Oh, very well. Not that I discovered much. No one has seen him for at least two nights. Three different people, though—two of them trulls—told me Emilio claimed he would come into a great deal of gold yesterday. Perhaps someone did him in for it.”

“I’d back Emilio against any man in this city,” Conan replied, “with swords, knives or bare hands.” But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was sure now that Emilio was dead, had died while trying to steal the necklace. And while dead drunk, at that. “I should have gone with him,” he muttered.

“Gone where?” Sharak asked. “No matter. More than one was counting on his having this gold. I myself heard the gamester Narxes make such dire threats against Emilio as to put me off eating.” He shoveled more stew into his mouth. “Then there’s Nafar the Panderer, and a Kothian moneylender named Fentras, and even a Turanian soldier, a sergeant, looking for him. As he still lives, he’s left Aghrapur, and wisely so.”