The mage frowned. He had tried for some time to ‘obtain’ one of General Mundara Khan’s servants, so far without success. The man stood but a short distance from the throne. Could he be taking an interest in Jhandar, as the necromancer took in him? Impossible.
“Do you know a tall barbarian?” he demanded.
“A man with pale skin and blue eyes who would also try to steal that necklace.”
“Co-nan,” came the moaned reply. The head of the corpse twitched and moved.
Jhandar felt excitement rising in him. “Where can I find this Conan?”
“Noooo!” The head rolled again, and one arm jerked.
“Speak, I command!” The triangle of chaotic light grew brighter, but no sound came from the body.
“Speak!” Brighter.
“Speak!” Brighter.
“Speak! I command you to speak!” Brighter, and brighter still.
“I … am … a maaan!”
As the wail came, the light suddenly flared, crackling like lightning and wildfire together. Jhandar staggered back, hands thrown up to shield his eyes. Then the light was gone, and the Power, and the body. Only a wisp of oily black smoke drifting toward the ceiling remained.
“Freeee … .” The lone, thin word dissipated with the smoke, and naught remained of Emilio the Corinthian.
Weariness rolled into Jhandar’s bones as the Power left. Despite himself, he sagged and nearly fell. There would be no summoning of spirit manifestations this night. That meant a full day must pass before he could send those incorporeal minions searching for the Hyrkanians, and for the barbarian. Conan. A strange name. But there was the woman, Davinia. There could be use in her, both for finding the barbarian and beyond. General Mundara Khan’s mistress.
With a tired hand he motioned the Khitans to help him to his chambers.
IX
The palace of Mundara Khan was of gray marble and granite, relieved by ornate gardens from which rose towers of ivory and porphyry, while alabaster domes whitely threw back the sun. The guards who stood before its gates with drawn tulwars were more ceremonial than otherwise, for an attack on the residence of the great General Mundara Khan was as unlikely as one on the Royal Palace of King Yildiz. But the guards were numerous enough to cause trouble, especially if a handsome young man should announce that he had come to see the general’s mistress.
Conan had no intention of entering by a guarded gate, though. Finding a tall, spreading tree near the garden wall, well out of the guards’ sight, he pulled himself up into its thick branches. One, as thick as his leg, ran straight toward the garden, but it was cut cleanly, a bit highe
r than the wall but well short of it. The top of this wall was indeed set with razor shards of obsidian. Within the garden, slate walks and paths of red brick wound through the landscaping, and in the garden’s center was a small round outbuilding of citron marble, cupolaed and columned, gossamer hangings stirring in the breeze at its windows and archways.
Arms held out to either side for balance, he ran along the limb, leaped, and dropped lightly inside the garden.
Moving carefully, eyes watchful for guards or servants, he hurried to the yellow structure. It was of two stories, the ground level walled about entirely with gauze-hung archways. Within those arches, the glazed white tiles of the floor were covered with silken pillows and rare Azerjani rugs. Face down on a couch in the center of the room lay a woman, her pale, generous curves completely bare save for the long golden hair that spilled across her shoulders. Above her a wheel of white ostrich plumes revolved near the ceiling, a strap of leather disappearing through a hole above.
Conan swore to himself. A servant must be occupying the floor above, to turn the crank that in turn rotated the plumes. Still, he would not turn back. His calloused hand moved aside delicate hangings, and he entered.
For a time he stood enjoying his view of her, a woman of satiny rounded places. “Be not alarmed, Davinia,” he said at last.
With a yelp of surprise the blonde rolled from the couch, long legs flashing, and snatched up a length of pale blue silk that she clutched across her breasts. The nearly transparent silk covered her ineffectually to the ankles.
“Who are you?” she demanded furiously. High cheekbones gave her face a vulpine cast.
“I am called Conan. I come in the place of Emilio the Corinthian.”
Fury fading into consternation, she wet her full lips hesitantly. “I know no one of that name. If you come from Mundara Khan, tell him his suspicions are—”
“Then you do not know this, either,” Conan said, fishing the ruby necklace from his pouch and dangling its gold-mounted length from his fingertips. He chuckled to watch her face change again, deep blue eyes widening in shock, mouth working wordlessly.
“How …,” she fumbled. “Where … .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Where is Emilio?”
“Dead,” he said harshly.