Conan the Triumphant (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 4)

“The closer the wine is the one who poisoned it,” Boros said, “the more strongly it will glow.”

“Get on with it,” Conan commanded.

Picking up the flask, Boros moved closer to Machaon. The glow remained unchanged. As he moved past the door, briefly thrusting the flask toward the men outside, it dimmed. Abruptly the bearded man pressed the wine-filled vessel against Narus’ chest. The hollow-cheeked man started back; the glow did not brighten.

“A pity,” Boros murmured. “You look the part. And that leaves only … .”

All eyes in the room went to Tivia, still standing with her back pressed against the wall. Under their gaze she started, then shook her head vigorously, but still said nothing. Boros padded toward her, holding the flagon of glowing wine before him. With each step the light from the wine became brighter until, as he stopped not a pace from the girl, the crystal he held seemed to contain red fire.

She avoided looking at the luminous vessel. “No,” she cried. “Tis a trick of some sort. He who placed the poison in the wine put a spell on it.”

“Sorcerer as well as poisoner?” Boros asked mildly.

With an oath Conan strode across the room. “The truth, girl! Who paid you?” She shook her head in denial. “I’ve no stomach for torturing woman,” he continued, “but mayhap Boros has some spell to force the truth from you.”

“Well, let me see,” the old man mused. “Why, yes, I believe I have just the thing. Aging. The longer you take to tell the truth, the older you’ll become. But it works rapidly, child. I should speak quickly, were I you, or you may well leave this room a toothless crone. Pity.”

Tivia’s eyes swiveled desperately from the grim-faced Cimmerian to the kindly-appearing man, calmly stroking his beard, who had voiced the awful threat. “I do not know his name,” she said, sagging against the wall. “He wore a mask. I was given fifty pieces of gold and the powder, with fifty more to come when Timeon was dead. I can tell you no more.” Sobbing, she slid to the floor. “Whatever you do to me, I can tell you no more.”

“What do we do with her now?” Machaon asked. “Give her over to the judges?”

“They’ll have her beheaded for slaying a noble,” Narus said. “A shame, that. She’s too pretty to die like that, and it should hardly count a crime to kill a fool like Timeon.”

“Giving her to the judges won’t help us,” Conan said. He wished he could carry on this conversation with Machaon and Narus in privacy, but the door was open and most of the company had jammed themselves into the corridor. Shut them out now and there might not be a dozen left when the door was opened again. He took a deep breath and went on. “We’ve lost our patron to an assassin. Ordinarily that would be the death knell for a Free-Company.” Uneasy mutters rose in the hall, and he lifted his voice to a roar. “Ordinarily, I said. But Timeon was a supporter of Count Antimides to succeed Valdric. Perhaps we can take service with Antimides, if I deliver the murderer to his hands.” At least it was a chance, he thought. Antimides might well find them employment simply to keep secret his own ambitions.

“Antimides?” Machaon said doubtfully. “Cimmerian, ’tis said he’s one of the few nobles who does not seek the throne at Valdric’s death.” There were murmured agreements from the hall.

“Timeon spoke too freely in his cups,” Conan said. “Of how Antimides was so clever he had fooled everyone. Of how he himself would be one of the most powerful lords of Ophir once Antimides took the throne.”

“Well enough,” Machaon said, “but will Antimides take us in service? If he pretends to be aloof from the struggle to succeed Valdric, how will he have need for a Free-Company?”

“He’ll take us,” Conan said with more confidence than he felt. “Or find us service. I’ll take oath on it.” Besides, he thought, it was the only course they had open.

“That aging spell,” Narus said suddenly. “It seems a strange sort of spell, even for folk as strange as sorcerers are reputed to be. Why would you learn a thing like that?”

“Cheese,” Boros replied with a chuckle. “I had a taste for well-aged cheese when I was young, and I created the spell for that. My master flogged me for wasting time. In truth, I doubt it would work on a human.”

“You tricked me,” Tivia gasped. “Whoreson dog!” she shrieked, launching herself at the bearded man with fingernails clawed. Conan caught her by the arms, but she still struggled to get to the old man, who stared at her in amazement. “I’ll pluck your eyes, you old fraud! You dung beetle’s offspring! I’ll take your manhood off in slices! Your mother was a drunken trull, and your father a poxed goat!”

“Get me a cord to tie her wrists,” Conan said, then added, “And a gag.” Her tirade was becoming obscene to the point where Machaon was listening with interest. The Cimmerian glared at Narus, who looked abashed as he hurried to fetch what Conan required. It was all he needed, to have to carry a shrieking girl through the streets. Narus returned with strips of cloth, and, muttering to himself, Conan bound his writhing prisoner.

7

Conan drew few stares as he made his way through Ianthe, even with a wiggling, cloak-wrapped woman over his massive shoulder. Or because of the woman. In the streets of the capital, eaten by fear and riddled with suspicion, no one wanted to interfere in something that might even possibly involve them in the troubles beyond the walls of the city. They could see a kidnapping take place or murder done and walk by looking the other way. Who the young giant might be, or why he carried a woman like a sack of grain, no one wanted to know. It could be dangerous to know. It could be dangerous even to appear curious. Therefore none looked too closely at the big Cimmerian or his burden.

He had already been to Antimides’ palace. With more than a little difficulty—for the well-fed chamberlain, as proud in his manner as any noble of the land, had seen no reason to give any information whatsoever to a stranger, and a barbarian at that—he learned that the count was a guest of the King. King Valdric liked Antimides’ conversation, claiming it was better tonic than any of his physicians or sorcerers could compound. Lord Antimides would be remaining at the royal palace for several days. It was remarkable how free the chamberlain had become with his tongue once a big hand had lifted him until his velvet shoes dangled clear of the floor.

The royal palace of Ophir was a fortress rather than the marble and alabaster edifices erected in the city by nobles. It was not by chance that the King dwelt behind massive granite walls while his lords spent their days in the capital in manors more suited to pleasure than defense. More than once the throne of Ophir had only been held secure by a King taking refuge behind those walls, betimes even refuge from his own nobles. They, having no strong points within Ianthe, had always been forced to abandon the city to the King. And as control of Ianthe was the key to keeping the crown, it was said that whoever held the royal palace held Ophir.

The guards at the towering barbican gate before the royal palace stirred themselves at Conan’s approach. A paunch-bellied sergeant, the small triangular beard that was in favor am

ong the nobles waggling on his chins, stepped forward and raised a hand for the Cimmerian to halt.

“What’s this, then? Do you mercenaries now think to give us your leftover women?” He chuckled over his shoulder to the pikemen behind him, enjoying his own wit. “Off with you. The royal palace is no place for your drunken carousing. And if you must bind your women, keep them from sight of the army or we will be forced to take cognizance of it.”

“She’s a gift for Count Antimides,” Conan replied, and managed a conspiratorial wink. “A tasty pastry from my patron. Perhaps he wishes to curry favor with a great lord.” Tivia redoubled her squirming; unintelligible noises came from behind the twist of rag gagging her.

“She seems not to like the idea,” the sergeant chortled.