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

and moved closer to Conan. “And this is the barbarian? He is certainly as large as was reported. I have a liking for big men.” Shivering ostentatiously, she fingered the small, overlapping steel plates on his hauberk. “Are you a mercenary, my handsome northlander?”

He smiled down at her, preening under her sultry look despite himself. “I am captain of a Free-Company, my lady. My name is Conan.”

“Conan.” Her lips caressed the name. “And why do you come to Antimides, Conan?”

“Enough, Synelle,” Antimides barked. “That lies between me and this barbar.” He had shot a hard look at the big Cimmerian, a warning to silence.

Conan bristled, and glared back. “I came seeking employment for my company, my lady, but the count has nothing for us.” Did the fool think he had no sense? Speaking of Timeon, and the baron’s connection to Antimides, would gain him naught and perhaps cost much.

“Nothing?” Pity dripped from Synelle’s voice. “But why do you not enter my service?” She raised her eyes boldly to his, and he thought he read a promise in them. “Would you not like to … serve me?”

Antimides snorted derisively. “You outdo yourself, Synelle. Are you not satisfied with Taramenon? Do you need an entire company of rogues to satisfy you? Or do you think to contend for the throne yourself?” He roared with laughter at his own wit, but jealous anger colored his glare at Conan.

Synelle’s face hardened, and Conan thought she bit back words. At last she spoke in icy tones. “My house is as ancient as yours, Antimides. And did the succession depend on blood alone, I would stand first after Valdric.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and her smile returned. “I will take your company in service, Conan. At twice the gold Antimides would give.”

“Done,” Conan said. It was not the sort of service he had sought, but the men of his company would at least be pleased with the gold.

The stern-faced count seemed bewildered over what had happened. “Can you be serious, Synelle?” he asked incredulously. “What use have you for such men? You throw your gold away like a foolish girl, on a whim.”

“Are not my holdings subject to bandit attacks as others are, now that the army keeps to the cities? Besides,” she added with a smouldering look at the Cimmerian, “I like his shoulders.” Her voice hardened. “Or do you try to deny me even the right to take men-at-arms in service?”

“Women who need men-at-arms,” Antimides replied hotly, “should make alliance with a man who can provide them.”

“Why, so I have,” she said, her mercurial mood becoming all gaiety. “Come with me, Conan. We have done here.”

Conan followed as she moved from the chamber, leaving a fuming Antimides on his wooden throne.

In the corridor she turned suddenly, her mouth open to speak. Conan, caught by surprise, almost walked into her. For a moment she stood, words forgotten and dark eyes wide, staring up at him. “Never have I seen such a man,” she whispered then, as if to herself. “Could you be the one to … .” Her words trailed off, but she still stood gazing at him as if in a trance.

A woman-wise smile appeared on Conan’s face. He had not been sure if her flirting in the other room had been for his benefit or Antimides, but of this he had no doubt. Lifting her into his arms, he kissed her. She returned his kiss with fiery lips, cupping his face with both hands, straining her body to him.

Abruptly she pulled back, horror filling her eyes; her hand cracked against his face. “Loose me!” she cried. “You forget yourself!”

Confused, he set her feet back on the floor. She took two quick steps back from him, one trembling hand to her lips.

“Your pardon, my lady,” he said slowly. Did the woman play a game with him?

“I will not have it,” she breathed unsteadily. “I will not.” Slowly her composure returned, and when she went on her voice was as cold as it had ever been for Antimides. “I will forget what just happened, and I advise you to do the same. I have a house on the Street of Crowns where you may quarter your company. There are stables behind for your horses. Ask for it, and you will be directed. Go there, and await my instructions. And forget, barbarian, as you value your life.”

Did women ever know their own minds, Conan wondered as he watched her stiff back recede down the corridor. How then did they expect men to know them? His consternation could not last long, however. Once more he had managed to save his company. For a time, at least, and that was all a man could ask. All that was left was to convince them there was no disgrace in taking service with a woman. Thinking on that he set about finding his way out of the palace.

8

The massive walls and great outer towers of the royal palace had stood for centuries unchanged, but the interior had altered with every dynasty till it was a warren of corridors and gardens. Soon Conan felt he had visited all of them without making his way to the barbican gate.

Servants rushing through the halls on their duties would not even pause at question from the young barbarian in well-used armor. They were nearly as arrogant as the nobles who lounged in the fountained courts, and inquiries made to richly-clad folk got him little from the haughty men except gibes that brought him close to drawing his sword a time or two. The sleek, languorous women gave inviting smiles and even offers as open as those of any trull on the streets. Such might have appealed had he not been in haste to return to the Free-Company, but even they had only amusement for his ignorance of the palace, tinkling laughter and directions that, followed, sent him in circles.

Conan stepped into yet another courtyard, and found he was staring at King Valdric himself, trailing his retinue as he crossed the greenstone tiles. The King looked worse than Narus, the young Cimmerian thought. Valdric’s gold-embroidered state robes hung loosely on a shrunken body that had once weighed half again as much as it did now, and he used the tall, gemencrusted scepter of Ophir as a walking staff. His golden crown, thickly set with emeralds and rubies from the mines on the Nemedian border, sat low on his brow; and his eyes, sunken deep in a hollow-cheeked face, held a feverish light.

The retinue consisted mainly of men with the full beards of scholars, leavened with a sprinkling of nobles in colorful silks and soldiers of rank in gilded armor, crested helms beneath their arms. The bearded men held forth continuously, competing loudly for Valdric’s ear as the procession made its slow way across the courtyard.

“The stars will be favorable this night for an invocation to Mitra,” one cried.

“You must be bled, your majesty,” another shouted. “I have a new shipment of leeches from the marshes of Argos.”

“This new spell will surely cast the last of the demons from you,” a third contributed.

“’Tis time for your cupping, my King.”