“Calm yourself,” Conan said. “We are not leaving Shadizar. At least, not yet. I have a commission from Taramis.”
“What kind of commission?” Malak asked warily. “And how much gold is she offering?”
“What she wants, I don’t know yet. As for price … Taramis claims she can bring Valeria back.”
The smaller man’s breath hissed in through clenched teeth. His dark eyes darted as if looking for a way out. “Sorcery,” he managed at last. “I knew that fire was sorcery. But do you think she has that much power? And even if she does, can you trust her?”
“I must take the chance, for Valeria. I owe … .” He shook his head. Malak was a friend, but he would not understand. “You have no such reason, so I will give you my half of Abulates’ gems if you will help me.”
Malak brightened immediately. “You did not not have to make this offer, Cimmerian. We are companions, eh? Still, I will accept it, just so everything is fair. That is, so long as I don’t have to enter Taramis’ palace. She put three of my cousins in her dungeon a few years gone, and two of them died there.”
“She doesn’t know you from Hannuman’s goosegirl, Malak. Still, I will not ask it of you, and you can be sure Taramis won’t. On the plain all she wanted of you was that you leave.”
“That just shows how little she knows of talent,” the small thief huffed. “If she wants a thief, who is better than me? What am I saying? I’ll burn incense in Mitra’s temple to give thanks that she chose you rather than me. What do you want me to do?”
“I will go to Taramis’ palace. You watch it carefully. I do not know where I may have to go, and I may not have time to seek you out first if I must leave the city. Also, find out where Akiro is.”
“Another sorcerer?” Malak exclaimed.
A sorcerer, indeed, was Akiro. A short, plump man with yellow skin like the men of far Khitai, though he had never named any land as his place of birth, he had aided Conan once before with his powers. The Cimmerian did not trust him, entirely—he did not truly trust any wizard—but Akiro had liked Valeria. Perhaps that would weigh in the balance.
“I may have need of him in this, Malak, to watch Taramis’ sorceries, to make sure Valeria is not returned with some bond-spell on her.”
“I will find him, Cimmerian. Do you have time for a drink to luck, or must you return to Taramis’ palace immediately?”
“I must go there for the first time,” Conan laughed. “I left her company without farewells, and her guards scour the streets for me. But I hope to reach the palace without killing any of them.”
Malak shook his head. “You will be lucky if she is not angry enough to have a pike decorated with your head.”
“She may be angry enough, but she will not do it. She sought not just any thief, Malak, but me. She knew my name, and she rode onto the plain to find me. Whatever she intends, Conan of Cimmeria is necessary to it.”
iv
To the city that surrounded it, the palace of Taramis presented the look of a fortress, though not, of course, so much a one as the Royal Palace. That would have been a good way to be shortened a head, drunkard though Tiridates might be. Taramis’ crenellated granite walls stood four times the height of a tall man, being thus two paces shorter than those of the King. Square towers stood at the four corners of the walls, and two more flanked the tall, iron-bound gates.
Those gates stood open as Conan approached, guarded by two warriors in nasaled helms and black breastplates, with long-bladed spears slanted smartly. Other pairs stood, as rigid as the stone they guarded, atop the towers, and more along the walls. The big Cimmerian’s lip curled in contempt for such guards. Like statues, they were, and as much use. On a moonlit night a blind thief could find his way between them without being seen.
The sun now dropped toward the western horizon, and the guards at the massive gates were near the end of their watch, bored and with their minds filled with the food and wine and serving girls that awaited them in their barracks. Conan was within three paces before they realized that he truly meant to enter rather than merely pass by. In their experience, men such as he did not enter the palace of the Princess Royal unless on their way to her dungeons. Their spears dropped as one, long points presented to his chest.
“Be off with you,” one of them growled.
“I am here to see Taramis,” Conan announced.
Their eyes ran over the sweat-caked dust that covered him, and sneers painted their faces. He who had spoken before opened his mouth. “You were told to—”
Suddenly Bombatta was there, flinging a guard to either side as if he barely noticed they had been in his way. The guards slammed against the thick, iron-bound planks of the open gates and collapsed groggily. Bombatta stood where they had been, glaring at Conan, his hand opening and closing on his sword hilt.
“You dare come here after—?” The massive scar-faced warrior drew a shuddering breath. His black eyes were on a level with Conan’s. “Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells did you get to?”
“The camels frightened my horse,” Conan said carelessly. “Besides, I needed a tankard or two of wine to clear the dust from my throat after the ride back to Shadizar.”
Bombatta ground his teeth. “Come with me,” he snapped, spinning to reenter the palace. The guards, just now rising to their feet, stayed carefully out of his way, but he shouted, “Togra! Replace those buffoons at the gate!” as soon as he was inside the walls.
Conan followed, but he was no lackey to hurry after the other, as he must were he to catch up. Instead he took his own pace, ignoring Bombatta’s darkening face as he had to slow his own steps or leave the Cimmerian behind.
A broad, flagstoned way led from the gate to the palace proper through an elaborate garden where marble fountains splashed and shimmered with watery mists and alabaster spires rose to treble the height of the outer wall. Here tall trees cast a pool of gentle shade. There open spaces were filled with flowering shrubs and plants brought from as far as Vendhya and Zingara. Formal walks laced through it all, and merely within Conan’s sight half a score gardeners, their short tunics and bare legs marking them slave, labored to increase its beauty.
A portico of tall fluted columns surrounded the palace itself, and within was a profusion of courtyards floored with polished marble and overlooked by balconies piercing niveous walls that gleamed even in the fading light. Tapestries of wondrous workmanship draped the corridors, and fine car pets from Vendhya were strewn in profusion. Slaves scurried to light golden lamps against the coming night.