Conan the Destroyer (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 6)
Ever inward Bombatta led, until Conan wondered if he were being taken through the entire palace. Then he entered a courtyard and stopped, neither noticing nor caring that the other man had stopped as well. Pedestals stood about the court, on each a symbol carved in alabaster or porphyry or obsidian. Some he recognized from the charts of astrologers. Others he was glad he did not know; his gaze did not linger on those. Among the pedestals stood knots of men in robes of saffron and black, embroidered with arcane signs in varying degrees of complexity. Others, in robes of gold, held to themselves apart. All their eyes swung to him as he stepped into the court, eager eyes, eyes that weighed and measured and evaluated.
“The man Conan,” Bombatta said, and the Cimmerian realized he addressed not the watching men, but Taramis, on a balcony overlooking them all.
The voluptuous noblewoman still wore her travel-stained garments, and h
er face was filled with arrogant fury. Her eyes locked with Conan’s. She seemed to be waiting for him to look away, and when he did not, her head jerked irritably. “Have him washed,” she commanded, “and brought to me.” Without another word she left the balcony, even her back eloquent of rage.
Her anger was no greater than Conan’s own, however. “Have me washed!” he growled. “I am no horse!” To his surprise, Bombatta’s scarred face reflected his ire.
“The baths are this way, thief!” The ebon-armored man all but snarled the words, and strode off, not looking to see if Conan followed.
The Cimmerian hesitated only a moment, though. He would welcome the chance to sluice away the dust; it was only the means of its offering—if it could be called an offer—that rankled.
The room to which Conan was led had walls mosaicked in images of blue skies and river rushes, and in its center was a large, white-tiled pool. Beyond the pool was a low couch and a small table bearing vials of oils. It was the bath-attendants who brought a smile to his face, though. Four girls flashed dark-eyed glances at him and hid giggles behind their hands. Their hair was uniformly black and pinned in identical coils tight about their heads, but short tunics of white linen fit snugly over curves that ranged from slender to generous.
“You will be sent for, thief,” Bombatta said.
Conan’s smile faded. “Your tone begins to grate at me,” he said coolly.
“If you were not needed … .”
“Do not let that stay your hand. I shall still be here … after.”
Bombatta’s hand twitched toward his sword; then, the scars on his face livid, he stalked from the chamber.
The four girls had fallen silent during the exchange. Now they huddled together, staring at Conan with frightened eyes.
“I will not bite you,” Conan tóld them gently.
Hesitantly they moved to him, simultaneously beginning to tug at his garments and chatter.
“I thought you were going to fight him, my lord.”
“Bombatta is a fierce warrior, my lord. A dangerous man.”
“Of course, my lord, you are as tall as he. I thought no man could be as tall as Bombatta.”
“But Bombatta is bigger. Not that I doubt your strength, my lord.”
“Hold,” Conan laughed, fending them off. “One at a time. Firstly, I am no lord. Secondly, I can wash myself. And thirdly, how are you called?”
“I am Aniya, my lord,” the slenderest of them answered. “These are Taphis, Anouk and Lyella. And to wash you is what we are for, my lord.”
Conan ran an appreciative eye over her lithe curves. “I can think of better things,” he murmured. To his surprise Aniya blushed deeply.
“It—it is forbidden, my lord,” she stammered. “We are sealed to the Sleeping God.” Gasps came from the other three, and Aniya’s face paled as quickly as it had colored.
“The sleeping god?” Conan said. “What god is that?”
“Please, my lord,” Aniya moaned, “it must not be spoken of. Please. If you reveal what I have said, I … I will be punished.”
“I will hold my silence,” Conan promised. But for all he said, they would speak no further word that did not concern his bathing.
He held still for being soaped and rinsed, then soaped and rinsed again. They dried him with soft toweling, then massaged fragrant oils into his skin. Not the most fragrant, to be sure. He managed to avoid those, though he still thought he smelled as perfumed as a noble fop by the time they were done. They were dressing him in robes of white silk when a bald and wizened man entered.
“I am Jarvaneus,” the old man said, bowing slightly, “Chief Steward to the Princess Taramis.” His tone indicated he considered that position infinitely higher than that of a thief. “If you are finished, I will take you to—” He coughed as Conan took up his sword belt. “There is no need for that here.”
Conan fastened the belt and settled the broadsword and dagger into place. He had little liking of being unarmed in any circumstances, and the more he learned the less he wanted to be so in Taramis’ palace. “Take me to Taramis,” he said.