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

The last length of Conan’s blade rasped from its worn shagreen sheath.

“No, Conan,” Sharak urged. “Kill him, and you may never find her again.”

“They would send another,” Conan said, but after a moment he tossed his sword on the table. “Leave me before I change my mind,” he told the nomad, and, scooping up one of the wine pitchers, tilted back his head in an effort to drain it. The Hyrkanian eyed him doubtfully, then trotted from the tavern.

XI

Davinia stretched luxuriously as gray-haired Renda’s fingers worked perfumed oils into the smooth muscles of her back. There was magic in the plump woman’s hands, and the blonde woman needed it. The big barbarian had been more than she bargained for. And he had intimated that he would return. He had not named a time but that he would return was certain. Her knowledge of men told her so. Though it was but a few turns of the glass since Conan had left her, a tingling frisson of anticipation rippled through her at the thought of long hours more in his massive arms. To which gods, she wondered, should she offer sacrifices to keep Mundara Khan from the city longer?

A tap at the door of Davinia’s tapestry-hung dressing chamber drew Renda’s hands from her shoulders. With a petulant sigh, the sleek blonde waited impatiently until her tiring woman returned.

“Mistress,” Renda said quietly, “there is a man to see you.”

Careless of her nakedness, Davinia sat up. “The barbarian?” She confided everything in her tiring woman. Almost everything. Surely Conan would not dare enter through the gates and have himself announced, yet simply imagining the risk of it excited her more than she would have believed possible.

“No, mistress. It is Jhandar, Great Lord of the Cult of Doom.”

Davinia blinked in surprise. She was dimly aware of the existence of the cult, though she did not concern herself unduly with matters of religion. Why would a cult leader come to her? Perhaps he would be amusing.

“A robe, Renda,” she commanded, rising.

“Mistress, may I be so bold—”

“You may not. A robe.”

She held out her arms as Renda fastened about her a red silken garment. Opaque, she noted. Renda always had more thought for her public reputation—and thus her safety—than did she.

Davinia made a grand entrance into the chamber where Jhandar waited. Slaves drew open the tall, ornately carved doors for her to sweep through. As the doors were closed she posed, one foot behind the other, one knee slightly bent, shoulders back. The man half-reclined on a couch among the columns. For just an instant her pose lasted, then she continued her advance, seeming to ignore the man while in fact she studied him. He no longer reclined, but rather sat on the edge of the couch.

“You are … different than I expected,” he said hoarsely.

She permitted herself a brief smile, still not looking directly at him. Exactly the effect she had tried for.

He was not an unhandsome man, this Jhandar, she thought. The shaven head, however, rather spoiled his looks. And those ears gave him an unpleasantly animalistic countenance.

For the first time she faced him fully, lips carefully dampened with her tongue, eyes on his in an adoring caress. She wanted to giggle as she watched his breath quicken. Men were so easily manipulated. Except, perhaps, the barbarian. She hastily pushed aside the intruding thought. Carefully, she made sure of a breathy tone.

“You wish to see me … Jhandar, is it not?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. Visibly he caught hold of himself. His breath still came rapidly, but there was a degree of control in his eyes. A degree. “Have you enjoyed the necklace, Davinia?”

“Necklace?”

“The ruby necklace. The one stolen from me only last night.”

His voice was calm, so conversational that it took a moment for the meaning of his words to enter her. Shock raced through her. She wondered if her eyes were bulging. The necklace. How could she have been so stupid as not to make the connection the moment Jhandar was announced? It was that accursed barbarian. She seemed able to concentrate on little other than him.

“I have no idea of what you speak,” she said, and was amazed at the steadiness of her voice. Inside she had turned to jelly.

“I wonder what Mundara Khan will say when he knows you have a stolen necklace. Perhaps he will inquire, forcefully, into who gave such a thing to his mistress.”

“I bought—” She bit her tongue. He had flustered her. It was not supposed to happen that way. It was she who disconcerted men.

“I know that Emilio was your lover,” he said quietly. “Has Conan taken his place there, too?”

“What do you want?” she whispered. Desperately she wished for a miracle to save her, to take him away.

“One piece of information