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

At first light she sent Tenio riding for Ianthe with the scarlet surcoat. The rest of the day she spent in ignoring Conan. Food and drink she denied him.

“Let him eat and drink when I have gone,” she commanded.

The men scattered about the room, most devoting their energies to dice or cards, gave her muttered assent and strange looks. She did not care. Not for the briefest moment would she allow the Cimmerian to be ungagged in her presence. Not until she had the five hundred pieces of gold in her hands to taunt him with. Not until she managed to settle herself, and that seemed strangely difficult to do.

Then the sun was making its downward journey. Time for Karela to leave for the hut. The bronze she had left, still wrapped in the blanket from Conan’s bed, outside beneath a tree. There was no one about to steal it, and she would not have it under the same roof with her could she avoid it.

As she was tying the blanket-swathed bundle behind her saddle—and muttering to herself for the sickness it made her feel in the pit of her stomach—Jamaran came out of the lone tower that remained of the ancient keep.

“That thing is valuable,” he said challengingly. “Five hundred gold pieces, you say.”

Karela did not answer him. This morning was no better time to kill him than last night had been.

“I should go with you,” the huge man went on when she remained silent. “To make certain you return safely with the gold. This noble you go to may prove treacherous. Or perhaps something else might delay you, a woman alone with so much gold.”

Karela’s face tightened. Did the fool think she planned to run off with the coin? Or did he think to take the gold and her both? “No!” she snapped as she swung into the saddle. “You are needed here to help guard the prisoner.”

“There are a score to watch him. So much gold—”

“Fool!” She made the word a sneering whiplash. “You must learn to think if you would lead men. That one inside, bound as he is, is more dangerous than any man you’ve ever seen. I but hope there are enough of you to keep him till I return.”

Before Jamaran could speak the furious words she could read plainly on his face, Karela put spurs to her fleet eastern bay, and darted down a narrow path that was little more than a deer track. Many such crossed and criss-crossed in the thick forest, and she was soon gone beyond following.

In truth, she did not think all of her followers were necessary to keep Conan imprisoned. What she had told the big Kushite was true. The Cimmerian giant was dangerous enough to make even her wary, and she prided herself on walking carefully about no man. She had seen him struggle when defeat was inevitable, slay when his own death was certain, win when only doom lay ahead. Bound hand and foot, however, and guarded by twenty men, she did not doubt Conan would be waiting as she had left him when she returned.

Nor did she think Jamaran could take the gold —or what else he wanted from her—without her steel drinking his life in the attempt. But her pride would not allow the nameless noble to see the open disrespect the shaven-headed man now showed her. Besides, this noble would certainly have other commissions—he had already offered one, though changing it to acquiring the bronze—but he would not likely offer them if he thought she could not keep discipline in her own band.

When Karela reached the clearing where the rude hut stood, the sun was a bloody ball halfobscured by the treetops, and long shadows stretched toward the east. The scarlet-and-black caprisoned warhorse stood alone as before. Slowly she made a circuit of the clearing, within the shaded shelter of the trees. It was a desultory search, she was well aware, but she was also aware of the bronze tied behind her. More than once had she found herself riding forward on her saddle to avoid the brush against her buttocks of the rough wool that contained it. She knew a desperate urgency to be rid of the figure.

With a snorted laugh for her own sensitivity, Karela galloped into the clearing and dismounted. She carried the blanket gripped like a sack, and kicked open the rough door of planks. “Well, Lord Nameless, do you have my … .” Her words trailed away in surprise.

The tall nobleman stood as he had at the first meeting, but this time he was not alone. A woman with a scarlet cloak pulled around her, the hood pulled well forward, stood beside him, cool dark eyes studying Karela over a veil of opaque silk.

Karela stared back boldly, tossing the blanket to the dirt floor at their feet. “Here is your accursed image. Now where is my gold?”

The veiled woman knelt, hastily pulling aside the folds of coarse wool. A reverent sigh came from her as the horned figure was revealed. With delicate hands she lifted it to the crude table. Karela wondered how she could bear to touch it.

“It is Al’Kiir,” the veiled woman breathed. “It is what I sought, Taramenon.”

Karela blinked. Lord Taramenon? If half what she had heard of his swordplay were true, he would be no easy opponent. She let her hand drift to the hilt of her scimitar. “There are five hundred pieces of gold to be handed over before it is yours.”

The other woman’s eyes swiveled to her.

“Is she what you seek also?” Taramenon asked.

The veiled woman nodded thoughtfully. “She seems so. How are you called, wench?”

“I am Karela, wench!” the red-haired bandit snapped, emphasizing the last word. “Now let me tell your fates, if you have not brought the coin agreed on. You, my fine lordling, I will sell into Koth, where your pretty face may please a mistress.” Taramenon’s face darkened, but the veiled woman laughed. Karela turned her attention to her. “And you I will sell into Argos, where you may dance naked in a tavern in Messantia, and please the patrons one by one for the price of a mug of ale.”

“I am a princess of Ophir,” the veiled woman said coldly, “who can have you impaled on the walls of the royal palace. Do you dare speak so to one before whom you should tremble?”

Karela sneered. “I not only dare speak so, by Derketo’s Teats, if my gold is not forthcoming I’ll strip you on the spot to see if an Argossean tavern will have you. Most Ophirean noblewomen are bony wenches who could not please a man did they try with all their might.” Steel whispered across leather as her blade left its scabbard. “I’ll have my gold now!”

“She will indeed do,” the scarlet-cloaked woman said. “Take her.”

Karela spun toward Taramenon, had an instant to see him watching with a bemused smile on his face, making no move toward her or his sword, then two men in the leather armor of light cavalry dropped from the dark rafters atop her. In a struggling heap she was borne to the packedearth floor.

“Derketo blast you!” she howled, writhing futilely in their grip. “I’ll spit you like capons! Codless jackals!”