Conan the Victorious (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 7)

“I do not believe the women of the court will find you a dancing bear,” she said, “although you are nearly as large as one.” Suddenly she was looking at him through long kohled lashes, and the tip of her tongue touched a full lip. “Nor can I see you as a montebank,” she added throatily.

“Co—Patil!” came a cry, and Conan saw Hordo leading his horse up from the river.

“I must go,” the Cimmerian told her roughly, and she nodded as though in some manner she was satisfied.

“Seek my tent tonight, O giant who calls himself Patil. My ‘interest’ in you is not done with.” A smile swept away the seductress to be replaced by the innocent again. “You have not asked my name. I am the Lady Vyndra.” And a flick of her gold-mounted riding whip sent her horse leaping away, the veiled woman at her heels.

Behind Hordo, Kang Hou’s servants were driving the merchant’s camels ashore, aided by the smugglers. One of the humped beasts knelt on the bank while Hasan and Shamil solicitously helped Chin Kou and Kuie Hsi into tented kajawahs, conveyances that hung like panniers on the animal’s sides.

“Pretty wench,” Hordo commented, staring after the galloping Vyndra. “Rides well, too.” He looked around to see if anyone was close by, then dropped his voice. “Did you find the chests?”

Conan shook his head. “But they are here. Someone tried to kill me.”

“Always a good way to begin a day,” Hordo said dryly. “Did you discover anything at all?”

“Three men tried to hire me as a spy and that ‘pretty wench’ wants to add me to her menagerie.”

“Your humor is beyond me, Cimmerian.”

“I also found out that my eyes are demon-spawned, and beyond that I learned that Vendhya is a madhouse.”

The one-eyed man grunted as he swung into the saddle. “The first I’ve told you before myself. And the second is known to all. It looks as if we were finally moving.”

The wazam’s party—Conan remembered Torio saying it had to be first in the line of march—was beginning to stretch out in a line somewhat east of due south, with Vendhyan lancers in two columns to either side. Karim Singh himself was in an ornate litter of ebony and gold, borne between four horses. An arched canopy of gleaming white silk stretched above the palanquin and hangings of golden gossamer draped the sides. Kandar rode beside the litter, bending low out of his saddle to speak urgently to the man within.

“If they tried to kill you,” Hordo went on, “at least you have stirred them up.”

“Perhaps I have,” Conan said. He pulled his gaze away from the wazam’s litter. “Let us join Kang Hou and the others, Hordo. There are hours of light left for traveling yet today.”

CHAPTER XIII

Night and the depths of the earth were necessary for some things. Some doings could not bear the light of day or exposure to witness of the open sky. As it did so often of late, night found Naipal in the gray-domed chamber far below his palace. The air had the very smell of necromancy, a faint, sickly-sweet taint of decay blended with the indefinable yet unmistakable hellish odor of evil. The smell hung about Naipal, a thing it had not done before his last deeds in that chamber, but he did not notice nor would he have cared had he.

He swung from contemplation of the resurrected warrior, standing as still as stone against the canescent wall in the same spot to which Naipal had at last commanded him on the previous night. The wizard’s eyes went to his worktable, skipping quickly over the chest of carved ivory. There, in crystal-stoppered flasks, were the five ingredients necessary for the transfer of life, the total quantity of them that he possessed. In King Orissa’s tomb beneath the lost city of Maharashtra stood twenty thousand deathless warriors. An undying, ever-conquering army. And he could give life to perhaps twenty.

With a wordless snarl, he began to pace. The ancient mages who prepared Orissa’s tomb had complied with the King’s commands to set him an ever-lasting bodyguard. But those thaumaturges feared the uses to which that bodyguard could be put if ever it were wakened, and they planned well. Only one of the five ingredients could be obtained in Vendhya. The others, chosen partly because they were little-used in sorceries, could be found only in lands little more than legend in Vendhya even two thousand years later. He had made arrangements, of course, but of what use were they when disaster loomed over his head?

Forcing his eyes to the ornate ivory chest, he clenched his fists and glared as though he wished to smash it, and he was not sure that he did not. When finally he had dragged himself from the chamber on the night before, it had been as one fleeing. Creeping through the corridors of his own palace like a thief, he told himself that this was not the paralysis returning, not the fear. He had conquered that. Merely he needed to rest, to refresh himself. Musicians were summoned, and food and wine, but all tasted like sawdust, and the flutes and citherns clawed at his nerves. He ordered cooks and musicians both to be flogged. By twos and threes the women of his purdhana were brought to him and returned, weeping and welted for their failures to please. Five times in the course of the day he had commanded that ten thousand pice be distributed to the poor in his name, but even that produced no uplifting of his spirits. Now he was back in his sorcery-carved chambers in the earth’s bowels. Here he would deal at last with the source of his danger, whatever or wherever it was.

His hands reached toward the flat ivory box…and stopped at the chime of a bell. Quizzically his head swiveled toward the sound. On one corner of the rosewood table, crowded amidst crystal beakers filled with noxious substances and oddly glowing vials sealed with lead, was another flat chest, this of polished satinwood with a silver bell, scribed about with arcane symbols, mounted atop it. Even as he looked, the bell sounded once more.

“So the fool finally found the courage to use it,” Naipal muttered. He hesitated, wanting to see to his own problems, but the bell rang again. Breathing heavily, he moved around the table to the satinwood chest.

Its lid came off, and he set it aside to stare down at a mirror that showed his image and that of the chamber in quite ordinary fashion. The mirror slid within the box on rails and props so that it could be set at any angle. He raised it almost upright. Eight tiny bone trays came next, atop silver pegs that fitted into holes on the edge of the box, one at each corner, one in the precise middle of each side.

Again the bell chimed, and he cursed. Powders prepared long in advance and stored with the mirror were carefully ladled onto the tiny trays with a bone spatula. Last to come from the box was a small silver mallet, graven with miniscule renderings of the symbols on the bell.

“Sa’ar-el!” Naipal intoned. A blue spark leaped from mallet to bell, and the bell rang. As it did, the powders at the four cardinal points flared in blue flame. Before those tiny berylline fires died in wisps of smoke, he spoke again. “Ka’ar-el!” Once more the bell sounded untouc

hed, and blue flame leaped at the minor points. “Ma’ar-el! Diendar!” For the third time the chime came and in the mirror Naipal’s reflection swirled and dissolved into a maelstrom of color.

Slowly the polychrome whirling coalesced into the image of a narrow-faced man in turban of cloth-of-gold wrapped about with golden chains set with rubies. “Naipal?” the man said. “Asura be praised that it is you.”

“Excellency,” Naipal said, suppressing his irritation, “how may I serve the Adviser to the Elephant, soon to be the Elephant?”

Karim Singh started and stared about him as though fearing who might be behind him. The man could not be fool enough, Naipal thought, to have someone with him while he used the scrying mirror. Could he?

“You should not say such things,” the wazam said. “Asura alone knows who might overhear. Another wizard perhaps, listening. And now, of all times.”